


Scars

by MsAuthoress



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-27 18:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2702312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsAuthoress/pseuds/MsAuthoress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. How can one not marvel at such beauty? It was a conundrum to her beyond knowledge how the Horse-lords could disregard the most beautiful things in the world, yet small or simple they may appear. Her task in aiding Theoden King to repel against the growing war may help her better understand them. NOT a tenth-walker. EomerxOC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this isn't my first story to ever write, though it certainly will be my first story to complete (good grief, how greatly do I become distracted by more stories that my creativity throws at me!), this story I have put great effort, love, and time into it. Any feedback concerning the quality of my writing, the portrayal of the characters, the flow of the chapters, and the storyline itself is greatly appreciated. However, I would not have gotten so far with the story without my beloved beta-reader. She is not a member on this website but what a dear she is, and a wonderful beta-reader who most certainly knows her knowledge of Tolkien beyond imaginable measure.
> 
> Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped! Please let me know your thoughts!

She had reached the Black Gate. Dark clouds rushed across the sky, driven by a parching wind, but now and then they broke apart and revealed the gibbous moon. By its light she could make out that before her, and all hope remaining was quenched. High cliffs upon both sides and ahead were two sheer hills, blacked-boned and bare. They were the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall, and they were not left unguarded. They teemed with Orcs, sleepless with eyes watching everywhere. Her fingers sought and found the gash where the blood still seeped through her sleeve. All her other injuries, the bruises and grazes she had amassed during her wild flight in the darkness, were nothing compared to this. She felt pressure, as if a heavy stone lay on her arm and beneath it the dagger was still piercing, digging deeper and deeper. So strange how painful such a simple metal could be, she thought.

She must not. She must not become as one of them. But she would have to address her disquiet on the matter in a safer place. First she had to find a way to pass through the gate. She glanced up at the Black Gate and frowned as a grim thought came to mind, but she quickly abandoned it. To climb the Black Gate was no wise choice, nor would she dare make the attempt.

A faint noise filled her ears, pulling her from her thoughts. Turning, she looked ahead and was uncertain whether to be joyous or fearful. She ducked behind the nearest sarsen. Haradrim, two hundred strong at least, were marching towards the Black Gate, each row carrying one lit torch. They remained far and it would take some time for them to arrive at the Gate, and thankfully the glow of their torches helped her discern the pace of their approach. She still had some time, but she would have to be swift to act. Blending with the Haradrim may be her sole chance of escaping, and it was it was a chance burdened with many a risk. But she had come this far and she would not give into her doubts. She had to be free, even should death take her in the effort to be. And if so, she would lie on soft, green grass. But she feared what might become of her.  
No! It would not happen. She would fight the darkness as long as she still drew breath.

She had little enough to disguise herself, but what she had would serve her well. She shrugged off her cloak and examined it. It was long and the fabric thin and the grey dye had mostly faded, but in the twilight it was black as nightfall itself. It would hide her well and even if it did not, her garments were black to match the Haradrim's and would scarcely be seen. Her hood could be wrapped about her head in such a way as to resemble their veiled faces. The gold jewelry she wore would serve to make convincing such a mask.

Her eyes drifted to the distance. The lights of their torches still glowed dimly and the sound of their footsteps reached her ears scarcely. She lowered her eyes to her hands and for a moment, she stood there in silence as a shadow filled her eyes. She shook her head, breaking herself from her trance quickly. She donned the jewelry and then draped the cloak about her head so it covered all but her eyes. With a sigh her eyes closed and she leaned heavily against the stone. The events of the past days were at last beginning to weary her body, and weighed heavily upon her.

She moved her hands to adjust her veil, but stopped when she felt a lump within the fabric. She furrowed her brow. With care, she pulled it out without disturbing her disguise. It was a piece of parchment. She immediately recognized it. It was an order to carry requesting her to slay an enemy. The order was from her lieutenant; the last order she was given before her imprisonment. She had seen it before but had forgotten about it when she was taken away as a prisoner in Barad-dûr. Rankling as the sight was to her eyes, she was smiling. Not only could she disguise herself as one of the Haradrim but she could pose as a messenger as well, a commander of the Haradrim host, even.

As far as the guards in the towers knew, she was a figure of authority over a host of Haradrim seeking passage through the Black Gate, a mission to execute for their Master. It would be granted to her. That would be her advantage. But with it came a risk of being unveiled as a deceiver.

Readjusting her head garb, she tucked away her hair so it only flowed down her back. Thankfully, her hair was dark enough to make the disguise believable. She looked back at the marching host one last time before sliding out of hiding. Bearing what little hope she had, she strode forward to the tall and looming Black Gate and gazed at the Teeth of Mordor, its towers just as tall and strong.

In her best Harad accent she yelled to the towers above, "Open the Gate! We are to go through!"

She did not have to wait long for an Orc to peer over the parapet. He snarled down at her. "Who demands it?" He was larger than the rest of the Orcs and wore heavier armor, staring at her with black, piercing eyes.

"A messenger sent by the Master himself," she called back. "I lead a host." She gestured behind her shoulder at the marching warriors advancing to the Gate. The words were like poison on her lips, but she contained herself.

The Orc sneered and turned to another next to him and spoke in the Black Language, which she understood, however much she loathed it. After he finished speaking, the Orc he spoke to growled.

"Do not just stand there! Go down, maggot!" the commander barked. His bright, evil eyes scanned the messenger. "This one is suspicious I say…"

The Orc grunted and begrudgingly did as he was bid. Her heart began to beat rapidly. She quickly recovered herself and stood straight and tall as the Orc stood in front of her, and hoped her eyes betrayed no fear. "Where is your order?" he demanded.

She was grateful for the parchment in her possession. Without hesitation, she retrieved it and held it out for the Orc. He snatched it from her hand and gazed at it before giving her another look. "Wait here."

The Orc returned to his superior. Her attention was drawn to the marching Haradrim. They were closer now, and continued to draw even closer, faster in pace than she remembered. Or mayhap it was the fear in her heart making it look so? But the bright flare of their torches confirmed her fears. They would soon be at the Black Gate and upon a glance at the tower, she saw there was no motive to open the Gate anytime soon.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They would see. The Haradrim would see upon arrival that she was not one of them. Her face was unmarked, bearing no punctures of black-hued ink. They would see her hair draped down her back and would think it odd, and they would push back her veil. She knew, for she had seen plenty of inspections of Haradrim take place to know what they would look for, and the first appearance to reveal her deceit would be her pale skin. She might pass muster in the dark, but as soon as they shone a torch in her face, they would know all.

"Open the Gate!"

Her attention was brought back to the tower. Before she could register what had been said, a great noise filled the air. It echoed so terribly loud that it hurt her ears, and it took great effort to not cringe. The Orc who had demanded to see her order approached her and returned the parchment. He bid her no fair look before returning to the tower. She gave no regard to him and raised her head. Her heart leapt for joy.

The noise was coming from the Black Gate, as its blackened walls slowly parted from each other. Relief clouded her. Was it true? She had no time to dwell in her thoughts. The marching of the Haradrim no longer was a mere, faint sound. The noise came to an abrupt stop and the Gate in front of her stood open. She blinked once, then again, looking ahead. But the sounds of the marching Haradrim quickly withdrew her from the haze she was beginning to enter, and she took her first step.

At first, it was a small step, slow and cautious. She feared that, despite her success at fooling the Orcs, they would suddenly see her disguise. Or worse, the Haradrim behind would recognize her. But neither happened, and she was soon walking away from the Black Gate as it grew smaller in the distance.

And then she ran.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in updates! All through the year I've been working at Scars with a great deal of changes, and am very excited to share it. I want to thank those who gave kuddos to the first chapter. Please feel free to leave your feedback. Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped.

A leather bound book sat in her palms. Her eyes discreetly and slowly ran over the pages, her fingers light in touch and careful as she turned the page. The papers were worn and stained, and very delicate. Age has long affected the condition of the book, and some areas remained unclear to be read, causing her eyebrows knotting together in concentration. But a frown also sat upon her features. It spoke of a servant of evil, yet so absurdly it was written that she laughed. She wondered, however. Was there any truth to the book, and if there indeed was…does this servant still remain?

Why did she read this? Had her dreams so greatly disturbed her that she sought to read a book bound to only make them worse? Her nights were sleepless and were filled with many dark dreams. Dark memories. If she continued, she soon would be unable to even close her eyes. With a sigh, Duvaineth closed the book she held in her hands and returned it to its proper place on the bookshelf. Her eyes were attracted to the large window in the study, the illuminating light of the moon bright and alighting the room with a beautiful white light.

Duvaineth went to the window and gazed through the glass. Her eyes fell nowhere in particular, but she often looked at the rushing water of the falls in the far distance. She heard footsteps; they were quiet as though made with the intent not to disturb her, but she did not turn to meet the person. She knew who it was, and gladly welcomed their presence when they stood next to her. They said nothing, and neither did she for a moment. Finally she spoke, her eyes unmoving from the window, "Sleep remains far from me."

"Such has come to be a nightly custom," they answered, their tone giving away that they already knew her answer, and mayhap the true reason behind it.

"Come and go they do, but never from existence do they fade," Duvaineth said. "They are never far. When I close mine eyes, they return always darker than before, and so great grow they in their darkness that they would sully the earth. Life as we know it to be, but a memory carried to the graves of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth." She then tore her gaze from the window and looked at him. Sorrow drenched her eyes as the flow of a river, and despite her strong efforts to hide it, the heavy weight of weariness and trouble could not be latent. "And then I see the great flames of Evil consuming the world."

Duvaineth took a deep breath. She was quiet for some time, but at length she spoke again. "Forgive me, Lord Elrond. I know my dreams are dark and none too pleasant, and I am certain you would that you not hear in words that you have already seen, and worse."

But the Elf-lord smiled warmly. "When have you been known to dream of pleasantries? Your captivity was a trial long and painful to endure. Wise you are, but as a heavy shadow does the memory of your torments follow you. Is it such for all those who have faced such times, even my own people. But you must allow not the evil to consume your very heart, or naught will be left of you."

"Such befell me once," Duvaineth said darkly. "It shall not happen again."

"No, I believe it will not. You are of a greater strength," Elrond reassured with a smile. He rested a hand on her shoulder, a comforting touch that made vanish her fears. "I say to you, Duvaineth of Lindon, your heart is strong and your will stronger. Let not the dark vapors of your dreams cloud your mind, for you are there in the darkness no more. Sleep, and fear not."

Duvaineth bowed her head to him, a gesture the Elf-lord knew as a promise she would, or would attempt to, at the very least. "I think, Lord Elrond…." She smiled as she raised her head. "I am long overdue to seeing the world and its beauty."

"Do as you will. Your return, when you should choose to, will be welcomed and is looked upon with gladness. For you Imladris holds open her doors, for she is my home and to it I yet welcome you."

Despite the words of Elrond, sleep came not easily to Duvaineth. She tossed and turned and tried to make herself comfortable, but to no avail. The images of her dream were clear as the night, but they did not haunt her; instead, they merely lingered in her mind, and she spent a long while contemplating them, but it did not help her fall asleep any more than did staring at the ceiling. She tried pushing the thoughts away once or twice, but they would soon return, and she lied awake for many hours.  
Duvaineth knew not when she fell asleep. Peace and relief washed over her as she slowly slipped into slumber, but the peace did not last long. The dream again returned, darker than before, and she felt entrapped in it. Darkness loomed over her, a heavy reminder of the shadow that followed her – taunting her, torturing her, and telling her she would never be free, and when she awoke in the morning she felt as if she had slept not at all. But she had managed to rest, though not well, and such was all she needed for her coming journey.

She packed very little, only the provisions she needed, and retrieved her weapons: her bow and quiver, a small number of daggers she hid within her garb, and her cloak. It was not often Duvaineth left the safety of Imladris and rode the plains, or hunt Orcs least of all. She loved the world as if it was her very soul, but in her heart was pure hatred for the darkness and death that had fallen upon Middle-earth and little encouraged her eyes to look upon the world. But it was her dream that had placed a heavy weight on her heart, and she desired nothing more than to put the servants of the Dark Lord to their deserving death.

And she would. She would make certain of it.

Duvaineth soon left the Last Homely House and stood in the stables, preparing her mare. She had bid farewell to Lord Elrond and the guests of his home whom she was very fond of. The Elf-lord had wished her well with a warm smile and a small sparkle in his eyes only she knew: he wished her peace. "Go with speed and watch where you tread, for danger lurks well concealed by which even the greatest traveler could be easily fooled," he had told her. His eyes then fell on the blood-red jewel lying on the hollow of her throat, and his eyes grew dark. "Be careful. Let your necklace come not to the sight of stranger nor enemy. You know who hunts you, and gladly would they have either your head or the necklace. Keep it hidden."  
Unknowingly, her hand came to her necklace and gingerly fingered the stone, and immediately she retracted her hand when an unnatural coldness touched her fingertips. She dared not look at the necklace. Quickly, she stuffed it within her tunic and grabbed the reins to her horse, Gilroch, and mounted. "Tolo, melui nín, si nora-lim!" Duvaineth barely gestured for her horse to gallop – her words were enough of a gesture – and she bolted in a harsh gallop that nearly tossed her much unprepared rider from her saddle, who laughed at her eagerness.

Her horse bore her swiftly, and soon Duvaineth was nearing the path that would lead her out the valley. There, walking along the road into Imladris and standing in her way, was an old Man garbed in grey; from his pointed hat sitting on his head to the soft boots he wore, even his hair and long beard was grey, and in his hand was a staff. He stayed his walk when he saw Duvaineth galloping towards him, and he spoke, but she knew not what he said. Duvaineth abruptly pulled on the reins, shouting in Elvish to her horse, and barely came to a stop in time. The old Man laughed in delight at her, a bright shine of amusement in his eyes. Duvaineth's lips twitched into a smile. "It is unwise to stand in the way."

He raised an eyebrow at her, his smile never leaving his grandfatherly features. "It is unwise to challenge a Wizard."

"Only a fool would dare challenge a Wizard unless he stood assured he would win." The simplicity of her words was even more amusing, and his smile grew wider.

"And such is why, Duvaineth, Wizards have never been challenged!" he retorted.

Duvaineth laughed and smiled fondly at the Wizard, outstretching her arm towards him, to which he firmly yet gently grasped her forearm. "Mithrandir! It is wonderful to see you again, my old friend. But I am afraid you are a bit late to visit. I am departing from Imladris."

"Nonsense!" Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. "I knew you would be departing from Imladris. I wanted to come before you took your leave, and it appears I have done so in excellent timing!"

"No, indeed!" Duvaineth said. "Only Gandalf the Grey has precise timing, whether he is early or late."

"A Wizard is never late! Nor is he ever early. He arrives precisely when he means to," Gandalf rebutted. There was a short pause. His face softened, as did his eyes, and there was a certain look in them that Duvaineth knew all too well, and she knew what was coming. "Only comes he early when he is concerned," he added in a softer tone.

Duvaineth gingerly spoke in slight jest in the hope to raise the Wizard's spirits. However, she knew if it concerned Gandalf the Grey, then it was heavy on his shoulders, and such it was meant to be taken with all sincerity. "I am favored plenty by the Grey Wizard to be thought of. What is it, my friend? Tell me."

Gandalf drew closer to her, tenderly rubbing her mare’s nose as he did, and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "I have a message for you. It has not yet come to pass but will, and when it does I urge you to heed my words greatly, and think not of them carelessly." His voice was deep yet quiet, as if he was speaking so out of fear he would be heard by others. The deep frown darkening his features told her his words should not be taken lightly. Upon Duvaineth's nod, the Wizard continued. "When grows darker the Shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me."

Duvaineth frowned. Gandalf was a wise person, wiser than she hoped to be, and he could see things that even her Elven eyes could not. She often held counsel with him and she had quickly learned to trust his words, no matter how the odds might seem. Whenever she received warning from him, she heeded them. His words dismayed her, even more so to hear of the Shadow of Mordor. Glancing at the relaxing look on his face, Duvaineth saw he was pleased to see that she was deeply concerned. "I little understand, Gandalf," Duvaineth said softly. "You speak these words and of the Shadow of Evil, but you mean to say more to me."

But Gandalf did not answer her. He merely smiled at her and placed his fingers on the stone of her pendant that had fallen out of her tunic into exposure, and unbeknown to her, he casted a spell on it. "You are no riddle-master, but in time will you see the meaning of my words. So take them not lightly, Duvaineth. We will not see each other for some time, but when comes the time for your return to Imladris…do so with all the haste you can manage."

His words chilled her heart, but the gentle squeeze of his hand on her shoulder brought warmth to her body. Duvaineth nodded rigidly and gathered the reins in her hands, her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was about to chirrup her horse into a gallop when the Wizard spoke again, stopping her. "Keep it hidden." Gandalf stepped back and smiled at her, offering a slight nod. "Farewell, Duvaineth."

"Farewell, my friend," Duvaineth said softly, and chirruped loudly to her horse. Gilroch burst into a gallop, and soon the shining beauty of the Last Homely House was gone from her sight.

Duvaineth rode all through the day, with the small exception of a meal and some rest for the sake of her horse. Although she did not have a course set in mind and simply rode where the wind blew, Gilroch had a course set in her own. She rode in the direction commanded by her mistress, but she took her far south from the Trollshaws, and nearby the Mitheithel River. The scenery around Duvaineth had changed; there were more patches of grass, though not green and in great need of water. Dust followed her trail as her horse rode swiftly over the plains, and in the near distance she saw the shimmering, flowing waters of the Mitheithel. It was a beautiful sight, though small it was; it had been long since Duvaineth had traversed the plains of Middle-earth, and she had dearly missed it.

Night soon showed signs of shadowing the world in its darkness, and Duvaineth quickly sought a safe place to make camp. Amid the grassy plains, she found a spot nearby the river. Its flowing water was gentle and quiet, and a tall tree stood nearby, providing shelter. Gilroch was not so willing, much to the amusement of her rider. Duvaineth had spent several years in Imladris, not once looking towards the valley where the world lied beyond. But Gilroch had; several years without roaming the lands was too long for her, and she was greatly eager to explore the world once more. But finally she complied. Duvaineth dismounted and made a small fire, and as the fire burned she tended to her mare, undoubtedly weary and famished from the long hours of bearing her mistress. After Gilroch was tended to and fed, Duvaineth returned to her fire and ate her own small meal; a slice of bread and an apple.

After she had her filling, Duvaineth leaned into the broad bark of the tree. Her eyes lifted to the sky and marveled at the crystalline beauty that was the stars. It was a sight that had been seen many a time before in Imladris, but in the open plains there was a certainly beauty to it that could not be explained. As memorized by the night-sky as she was, Duvaineth's attention soon fell away from it and onto the cold pressure of a stone lying on her chest underneath her tunic. Slipping her hand in her shirt, Duvaineth withdrew her pendant from its hiding spot and held it in her hand. Gazing upon the pendant filled her with relief and warmth, but also dread.

It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that a king could not deny his queen. The jewel lay in the center, blood red and shining brightly as if it were the moon itself, held by many silver wires and formed in the shape of a dragon's eye. But what gathered her attention was the red stone. Deep within the stone, what only Duvaineth herself could see, was a tinge of black. It swirled about within the stone like a wandering soul. It gave her a cold shiver, dark and unwanted and its touch like ice.

Duvaineth could no longer look at it, her heart heavy with a shadow looming over her. She stuffed the pendant into her tunic and closed her eyes as relief fell over her, and it was no more. The heaviness on her heart faded, and so did the dread she had felt, but when she tried to sleep she could not. Duvaineth tossed and turned for an hour in what was a hopeless attempt to fall into slumber, and it was not well into the night. Only a couple of hours before dawn did she manage to fall asleep. It was no dreamless slumber either. Dreams came of taunts and misery, and a dark menace veiled by the darkness.

When Duvaineth awoke with a start, she saw that dawn had already arrived, and the sun was slowly rising above the horizon and giving life to a new day. Doubtful she would be able to slip back into slumber, or even sleep peacefully if she did, Duvaineth rose and tended to Gilroch and herself before preparing the continuance of her journey. In less than five minutes, Duvaineth was galloping away into the breaking dawn. Gilroch eagerly bore her mistress, but this time, it was Duvaineth who was eager to return to her travels. The memories of her dream still burned harshly in her mind. But even so, she found herself feeling wearier than she had last night, and the sleep beckoning her so enticingly.

Duvaineth forced herself to stay awake, but such only worked for a short time. Somehow, she had laid her head upon her horse’s neck, simply watching the scenery pass. A part of her did not want to fall asleep in fear that the dreams would return, but another part of her cried out desperately for sleep. She was unable to resist, and soon her eyes softly closed. For the first time in a very long time, Duvaineth slept a dreamless slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

"They draw close." The smell was stronger now. An hour ago it had been but a faint scent, yet now Duvaineth's face held a deep frown in disgust.

Duvaineth looked up at the tree. She knew to where the party of Orcs headed, and surely they would pass this way. If not, she would know what their course was by the help of the tree and her eyesight. Her journey had not lacked slaying Orcs, and today was no exception. Although their plan was not certain to Duvaineth, there were two certainties of what their plan was – they were either returning to their Master, or were seeking to lay waste to homes and do the bidding of the Dark Lord. There was nothing here but grass, trees, and dirt; no villages were in sight or other travelers that might be felled by the ill fate wrought at the hands of the Orcs. But they would not go very far to ransack homes or put innocent lives to an end. 

"Too long a time now have they befouled the earth," Duvaineth murmured, and swiftly dismounted. She shooed Gilroch away into the thicket of trees to her left so that she might be hidden and safe, and perchance enjoy herself at the river bank not far beyond. Quickly, she climbed up the tree, though not far, only high enough for her to be unseen. Her eyes scanned the lands below and ahead of her. Several moments passed and she did not see anything, but she knew they were near for their scent was strong, and she had to use her cloak to shield her nose from the stench.

Her eyes then caught sight of something. It was small, like animals flocking, but Duvaineth's eyes were able to perceive it better. It was the party of Orcs, and they were not far. So Duvaineth sat back and simply waited. She would not risk continuing her road with the knowledge of Orcs roaming her path any more than she would risk traveling at night. She had to be quiet and make her attack in stealth. Riding towards them would end badly. With a group to fight alongside with, it would be successful. Alone, not so much. With her having to go solely against five Orcs, there was some danger to such already. Despite their appearance and movements, they were not to be underestimated. And Duvaineth would rather flee than to overestimate her confidence.

"Keep it up, you worthless maggots!" came a growl. Duvaineth's attention was immediately caught, her eyes shifting to the nearing Orcs. They were within earshot, and she saw their pathetic, grotesque bodies marching through the thickets. Unfortunately, the smell could not be kept away.

Duvaineth slowly slid her bow from her back and held it firmly in her hand. They passed the tree in which the Elf was hidden, but quickly one Orc stopped, followed swiftly by the rest. The Orc, presumably their leader, looked around with his red piercing eyes as he sniffed the air. "What is it?" one Orc asked.

She retrieved an arrow, and notched it to the bowstring.

"I smell…Elf-flesh!"

She drew back the bow, her eyes already focused on her target.

 

"Elf-flesh! Where?" the Orc cried, frantically looking about. It was not out of fear, but eagerness. "I'm hungry. I do not see—"

The arrow was released, and it pierced the speaking Orc in his neck. Duvaineth frowned. She missed her target, but any dead Orc was a dead Orc. Duvaineth moved fast. The Orcs were now startled and drawing their weapons, having come quickly to the realization that they were being attacked. The Elf dropped herself from the tree and landed on her feet, though she nearly fell on her legs at the harsh movement. Quickly, she shot two arrows, one at a time, and killed two more Orcs. The time came where her quiver of arrows would be of no use to her, and she unsheathed her sword. She turned in time to meet her next opponent. He proved to be a less easy match than the two Orcs she had just killed, and she was forced to evade and parry several attacks before twirling her sword in her hand and thrusting the blade into his chest.

"Enough!" the Orc-leader sneered, brandishing his longsword. "It is my turn." He grinned wickedly at her, baring his sharp, animalistic teeth.

A challenge Duvaineth found him to be. Both sword-wielders parried and dodged their attacks. This Orc was no mere follower. He knew how to fight, but he was too confident, and it quickly became his downfall. He held his sword in both hands and swung at the Elf, but her swift dodge made him stumble, which was surprising to her. But it delayed him. Delayed him indeed, and when he turned about, off his head went. With the Orc-leader now dead, the encouraging growls from his two remaining troops went silent, and Duvaineth heard naught but the sound of the wind – and the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Duvaineth barely turned when the bowstring was released, and the shaft missed her. Quite an aim, she thought. The Orc that shot the arrow bore a look of fear in his eyes, having now emptied his quiver and his ally bore neither bow nor arrow. Duvaineth smiled to herself, and in one swift movement, she withdrew a dagger from the inside of her boot and threw it at the Orc, and he met his fate with the blade lodged deep into his chest. All left standing was one Orc, and he delayed not in fleeing. But Duvaineth was not going to allow it without giving him a message.

An arrow whistled through the air and struck the Orc in the leg, felling him with a cry from the beast. Duvaineth hovered over his pathetic writhing and stared at him with what she meant to be pity, but instead was amusement. "Go ahead, Elf!" the Orc sneered. "Do what you will. Finish me!"

"No," Duvaineth simply answered. "You will live. But consider it not a blessing." She leaned over and carelessly yanked the arrow from his leg, and he roared in pain. "Return to your Master. Tell him the courage of the Free Peoples still stands strong, and he will have to work harder."

Duvaineth turned and left the Orc. She heard his struggles to rise to his feet and touched the hilt of her sheathed sword, half expecting him to attack. But he did not. He fled, and nothing was left but the lifeless bodies of her enemies. Duvaineth let out a breath and wiped her brow. Her attention was no longer on the skirmish that had transpired, but on her hand that bore a deep gash, and was covered in her own blood. Duvaineth frowned. She did not remember feeling pain.

A bright sparkle averted her attention from the wound. A sword lay at the Orc-leader's side. His longsword, Duvaineth realized as she crept closer to it, but it was no Orc blade. No. It was an Elven blade. As Duvaineth picked it up and inspected it, she saw it was freshly stained with her blood. Why felt she no pain when the sword cut her skin? It was strange, but more so that an Orc had an Elf blade in his possession. That alone was very interesting. Duvaineth was sure it was nothing, but she would keep it. Mayhap Lord Elrond could give her insight to the blade when she returned to Imladris.  
And yet, she wondered, had the blade truly cut her skin without her feeling it, or had it merely been the excitement of battle? Duvaineth decided she would test it. Gripping the handle of the blade tightly in her hand, she held the weapon over her other hand and waited for the sharp burning sensation to come as she glided the razor edge over her palm. No pain came. Her hand bled, but she felt no pain, and the excitement of her fight against the foul Orcs had long faded. What was this? Duvaineth could not help but gaze at it as it glittered softly in a white light under the rays of the Sun, many a thought coursing through her mind. This was indeed a marvel to ask Lord Elrond of.

Duvaineth went in search for her horse, and soon found her where she expected her to be. "Well done," she murmured, tenderly stroking her muzzle. In return, Gilroch nuzzled her cheek, inciting a soft laugh from her mistress. Duvaineth turned and knelt at the river, and as soon as her wound was cleaned and bandaged, she mounted her faithful companion and hurriedly urged her into a gallop. If there were five Orcs roaming, then there were more, and Duvaineth cared not to come across the path of twenty Orcs.

Duvaineth breathed a quiet sigh of relief the moment she was out of the forest. The stench of Orcs had forced her smelling away and made her stomach unwell, and she missed the sight of sunlight filtering through the numerous trees about her. As she rode across the plains, her mind drifted to her discovery of the Elven blade. It enthralled her deeply and was indeed riveting. It was no mere Elven blade, either. It had its own ability, a part of a sword she had never seen before. The ability to cut the skin and inflict no pain was indeed mysterious, and Duvaineth could not help but wonder about it.  
And all the while be troubled by it.

Her thoughts on the sword were brief. The scenery about her changed and became familiar to her again, but it brought her no relief. In truth, Duvaineth had paid little heed to where her road took her. She simply rode south and slew a small number of Orcs along the way, and then continued on. But this time she knew where she was.

She was in Enedwaith. The realization surprised Duvaineth. Verily, had she traveled so far? The thought had not come often to her mind and when it did, it was only brief. To the north she saw the grasslands and distant vision of the still waters of what she recognized to be the Fords of Isen. Rohan was not far, and neither was the welcoming Curunír, lord of Isengard, ever an ally of the Elves. Duvaineth looked eastward. Rohan was not far, and she wondered for a moment whether to cross into the lands or not. As soon as the thought came, she dismissed it. No. It was too close to Mordor for her liking. Perchance she could seek the guidance of Curunír, but it would not be today.

Duvaineth tightened her grip on the reins and guided her horse away from the east, and went another way. She would avoid Rohan as much as possible, no matter how many Orcs wandered the lands; the land alone was dangerous with its Horse-lords.

A glance at the sky told her evening would soon be upon them. Gilroch had borne her mistress throughout the day along the rocky plains with little rest, and she well deserved a good night's respite. Duvaineth soon stopped and made camp, first tending to her dear steed. "You have done well today," she said softly to the animal. She reached into her sack, pulled out an apple and fed it to her, gently brushing her flank. "Rest well tonight, melui vell. You have earned it."

The cold pressure of an arrow tip at the side of her neck made her stop. Her eyes shifted to the side, but all she saw was a glimpse of someone garbed in green and brown leather. A voice spoke, quiet and deep, "What is an Elf doing in the harsh lands such as Enedwaith? It is not wise."

"Not all are wise."

"Indeed. But you knew I was here."

"What inclines you to believe so?"

"You are smiling." Unbeknown to her, the owner of the arrow at her neck smiled too. With a soft laugh, he lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. "Dearest Duvaineth!"  
Duvaineth turned and smiled at the Man before her, a look of pure joy alighting her face. "Aragorn."

The Ranger smiled broadly at her and the two embraced each other with great joy and Elvish words of greeting and happiness. "Forgive me, my friend. I am surprised to see you here," Aragorn said as he withdrew, a smile still perched on his lips. "I expected you to be in Imladris."

"Alas, the callings of the world became too loud for me to ignore another day," Duvaineth replied. "I rode from Imladris a fortnight ago, and have since been treading many roads."

"And by chance we meet here, of on all interesting lands to meet."

"I think we know come this time the odds of our meetings to be fairly strange, friend, and roads not far from interesting."  
"No, indeed!" Aragorn laughed.

A fire was made, and they sat nearby the burning flames. Aragorn told the Elf all to have transpired in the recent months since they last saw each other. As a Ranger of the North, he did not lack stories to tell. As grim as they often were, there were some that were enjoyable. Duvaineth happily listened to the stories her friend recounted, whether grim or not so, or those that lacked the entity of Orcs. She was happy to see him again after so long, and his company was quite comforting to her after several days of bearing such heaviness on her heart. His stories lifted her spirits. It was soon Duvaineth's turn to share her own tale or two. "Before my departure from Imladris, I crossed paths with Mithrandir. He bid me farewell with a riddle."

"Ah." Aragorn laughed heartily. "Why lack I any disbelief?"

"Often speaks he in riddles, and often wonder I if he speaks them with meaning or to feed the fire of his amusement," Duvaineth said, laughing also. "But this was no riddle of bidding a simple farewell or safe travel. It was…grim, and long has it remained upon my mind. It was a warning, I believe. About what, I know not. He told me it has not yet come to pass, and I feel it concerns the growing strength of Sauron."  
Aragorn frowned. His interest piqued, he leaned forward, anxious to hear of this riddle. "Tell me," he urged.

Duvaineth nodded. She thought back to the Wizard's words and, clearing her throat, she repeated them. "When grows darker the shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me. He warned me we would meet not again for some time, and deeply does it worry me."

Aragorn leaned back and pondered it. His frown had deepened as he contemplated her words, nodding after a moment. "I see how you mean," he said, and sighed. "Unfortunately, I must agree with you, and you know I would go to agree with gladness on many things, but on this I would that I could disagree with all fervency. His riddle indeed concerns the strength of Sauron. Perchance might it be he gathers more forces? I cannot say for certain. But I would dwell not upon it too heavily. When go you to again traverse your road, your mind shall be needed elsewhere."

Silence fell upon them, but it was soon diminished by another tale from the Ranger. Yet his thoughts remained on the Elf. He wished her not to dwell on such troubling thoughts no more than he wished himself not to. Often her mind was visited by them. As Duvaineth divided some bread and fruit, Aragorn asked her a question that caused her to pause, but she knew he spoke out of concern for her. "How fare your dreams?" When he saw the sudden stillness of her hands and the gloomy look in her eyes, Aragorn knew the answer. The dreams had long returned, and darker than before. He smiled sadly. "You need say nothing. I am sorry."

After a moment, Duvaineth let out a long sigh. "There are very few to whom I speak of my dreams. You are one of them. But you need not your question answered, for assuredly you see the answer in mine eyes alone. They are my greatest weakness. I had hoped when setting forth from Imladris they would cease; as though the lands alone might ease them. I was wrong."

"Is such why you sought to travel?" Aragorn asked gently. He earned a nod from her.

"I cannot sleep. I know not when the last time I slept peacefully was, to have no darkness disturb me," Duvaineth said. "I am weary, Estel, yet afraid to close mine eyes. He haunts not only my dreams, but burdens my heart with a heavy shadow as well. Am I to ever be free from these nightmares? Or am I to live these days with little peace to mind and heart, forever shadowed?"

Her words were sincere. If one did not believe such to be true, then a glance at her eyes would quickly change their mind. She lived in an endless fog of darkness, and a heavy heart of sorrow. Little brought her peace, and not even the healing of her own kin could wash it away. Although she had been healed of her physical hurts, she was healed not of the wounds of her memories.

Aragorn gently took her hand in his own and, squeezing it tightly, he spoke to her in a tone only a brother could voice, "You are a strong elleth, Duvaineth. Told me you have of the times of darkness you have suffered, darker than that you suffer at present. I have seen you bear through the shadow that follows you as a haunt. Wan are these days for all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. You know well of my love for the wild to be far and great, yet in the wild even I struggle to find contentment. But you will not falter. This I know truly."

The sadness still lingered in her eyes, but on her lips was a smile. "Thank you, dear friend," she whispered. "Your words soothe my heart. Although the shadow comes and goes as it wills and often lingers more than I desire it to, you have eased it. Such is my hope that the darkness one day shall meet an end, that we may see light."

Aragorn merely smiled, and said nothing. But he needed not to; his smile was enough in words. He too hoped one day the darkness would end.

It was Duvaineth who offered stay for the wandering Ranger. Night had now fallen, the air having grown chilled, and Enedwaith was no place to wander come nightfall. As keen as Aragorn's eyes were, they were no vision of an Elf's, and could easily betray his safety, unlike in daylight where he scourged every morsel of his surroundings. Aragorn gladly accepted her offer and in return, he offered to keep watch. Had it not been for the knowing look and raised eyebrow Aragorn gave her, Duvaineth would have protested, but she knew, even though he took watch throughout his travels, some nights not even entailing a slumber, Aragorn still slept more than her.

Duvaineth agreed, although begrudgingly so, and went to sleep, but not without difficulty and the occasional shift and shuffle in her bedding. This went not unnoticed by Aragorn. Soon came the tossing and turning and the quiet murmurs from her lips. Though her voice was soft, Aragorn heard her and recognized the name she spoke in her sleep and the pain that touched her tone. His heart ached for her. Aragorn turned away from his watch and went to the troubled Elf, and knelt at her side. Tenderly, he placed his hand upon her forehead and murmured softly:

"Gerich 'ûn sui raw,  
'Law lîn síla sui Ithil,  
Meleth thilia min hin lín,  
Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen."

Her fervent, restless tossing and turning ceased as calmness fell over her. She soon entered a peaceful, dreamless slumber, her dark dreams but a mere flicker upon her subconscious. She would sleep tonight shorn of the heavy weight of her dreams haunting her, but Aragorn knew the soothing of his words would be short-lived and she had many a night before her upon her journey. He could only hope peace would be found amid some nights, for sleep came seldom to Duvaineth and peace least of all.

"Rest well, Meluiwen," Aragorn said softly. "You well deserve it."

Morning came all too soon. As dawn made its peak, the two travelers rose and quietly shuffled around and prepared for their departure as the hour approached. A fire was kindled, a small meal was eaten, and Duvaineth tended to her horse to ensure she was prepared for their journey. "Alas," Aragorn said sadly with a sigh, "it is here we must part ways. I would it be not so, for it has been some time since last we walked the same road together and dearly miss I your company. But I know you shall be well. Paths more dire you have treaded, and Enedwaith is naught compared to where you have treaded before."

"Nor is any road you should tread foreign to you. But I fear not for you, and I pray you be well and unhindered along your journey all the same!" Duvaineth said.

Aragorn smiled and gently held her face in his hands, leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on her brow. "Be safe, Meluiwen," he softly bid, and then he turned away and departed.

Duvaineth watched as the Ranger disappeared into the wilderness, cloaked with his face hooded and unseen to the world. A twinge of sadness stung her heart as she remembered Mithrandir's words, and she hoped it would be not so with Aragorn as well. "May this be not our last meeting for some time," she said quietly, but her attention was soon torn away by the soft caress of her horse’s nose pressed against her cheek. Duvaineth laughed softly and reached up, stroking Gilroch mane. "Let us go, sweet one. The day awaits us." And she was certain Gilroch was eager to begin their trail.

Elf and mare rode through the day, save for a number of rests. However, such rests were brief and Duvaineth continued with haste. A growing uneasiness had been upon her since the morning. It did not lessen, and only continued to trouble Duvaineth as the day grew. And yet, nothing stood within sight nor could she smell anything in the air. There was naught of a suspicious sound beyond the thundering gallop of her companion. All was silent – mayhap too silent, and such increased the unease she felt. It gave her all the more reason to hasten, and she did so with an urgent chirrup to her horse. If Gilroch was not disquieted how her mistress sat stiffly on her back, then it was the tone of her voice that did, and she rode with greater speed.

Duvaineth soon began to notice the weariness befalling her horse. They had been riding since their last respite in the late morning, and it had been a few hours since then. Gilroch looked to be both forwandered and forhungered, and was in need of some rest. Duvaineth found little joy at the thought of staying Gilroch's pace as the uneasiness continued to dwell on her as a shadow, but she wanted not for her dear horse to collapse either. Given no choice, Duvaineth complied with her horse’s needs and brought her to a watershed of the Angren. As Gilroch eagerly drank the flowing waters of the bank, Duvaineth quenched her own thirst.

"You must be hungry," Duvaineth murmured to her companion. She dismounted and retrieved her sack, searching for some food for her. She pulled an apple from her sack and held it up to Gilroch, who happily munched away at the offered treat. At seeing the quickness of her horse's eating, Duvaineth could not help but smile. "Forgive me, sweet one! I should not have neglected you so."  
Gilroch swished her tail in response. Duvaineth laughed and reached for another apple, but stayed the motion. Her eyes shifted to the side and intently gazed at the plains behind her. There was something following her trail – or someone. It was near. Duvaineth's unease had erstwhile been seldom strong, even amid the present day, but she felt the disquiet to suddenly roar as a fire in that moment. It did not settle well with her. Quickly, Duvaineth retied her sack to the saddle, mounted Gilroch, and in a strong voice she urged the horse onward. Gilroch, too, seemed to have sensed their guests, for she rose on her hind legs and burst into a gallop and bore her mistress faster than Duvaineth had ever seen her run.

Duvaineth looked behind her only briefly, ducking as an arrow flew an arm's length above her head. She looked behind her again and this time, she was met with a displeasing view – and now knew the reason for her unease all throughout the day. They were no ordinary Orcs. They were Warg-riders. They rode fast and fierce against the wind, nigh as fast as Gilroch. And there were many of them. Mayhap she had made the mistake of continuing in Enedwaith.

Another arrow was shot, but it again missed her, nearly grazing her arm. Duvaineth turned around, retrieved her bow and notched an arrow, and shot it at one of the archers. It went into his chest and he fell off his Warg, defeated and left behind. There were three other archers among the large group of Orcs, and they all had their bows drawn and ready to fire. "Noro lim, Gilroch! Noro lim!" Duvaineth shouted, and her horse heeded the command.

Duvaineth turned again and shot another arrow, but missed. She needed not to succeed in her aim to lose one of the archers on her tail, for Gilroch rode under a tree and a thick, looming branch threatened to hit her in the face. Duvaineth ducked in time to avoid the collision, but the archer did not and fell from his Warg. Duvaineth would have laughed were her situation not so staid. She steered Gilroch in another direction, but her attention was heavily focused on her enemies. And notching an arrow and drawing back the shaft with what strength she could muster and trembling hands, she little noticed her surroundings or where she was steering her horse.

Had she been more precise with her aim and target and took a moment to look about her, she would have noticed the rocky and green pastures of Rohan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duvaineth finds herself in a grave situation, and an unlikely ally comes to her aid.

"Argh!"

Thump.

The last archer was slain. However, Duvaineth did not celebrate. The arrow buried deep in her shoulder distracted her from even the thought of breathing in relief. Celebrating would be far too dangerous while her victory and fate remained unknown to her. She knew it was only a matter of time before either her horse would tire out or the Wargs would catch up to her. It would be the end of Gilroch, a horrifying fate, and one certainly not deserved. Not when Gilroch had always remained faithful to her. No. It would not happen. Duvaineth would not allow it. She would have her flee. At least her life would be spared and she would find safety, and mayhap someone to care for her. It was a sacrifice Duvaineth was more than willing to make.  
Duvaineth would fight her enemies and their pets to either her victory or death. She only hoped Gilroch would be safe.

"Flee, melui nín!" Duvaineth spoke to her horse. "Leave me be! Find safety!"

Duvaineth hoped, as she pulled her legs over to the side, that her horse would abide by her words. Gilroch was a faithful one, a steed never willing to leave her mistress. It was only in the most perilous of times the horse obeyed her mistress' commands for her to leave her, and even then there came many a time when she did not do so. This time, Gilroch did heed her words, much to Duvaineth's relief. The mare did not slow her gate when her mistress threw herself from the saddle and onto the ground, and soon Gilroch was but a small dot in the distance, soon disappearing within the body of knolls. Duvaineth was given no time to watch after her horse, for as soon as she dropped to the ground she heard a loud snarl and howls followed after.

The first nock of her arrow was ineptly aimed due to a trembling grip. It missed her target, but it grazed a leg of the Warg. It slowed the Orc-rider, yet it was not enough. It all happened in a blur for Duvaineth. She remembered only leaping out of the way, nocking arrows and slaying as many Wargs as she could. When her arrows became ineffective, the Elf drew her sword and quickly made her attack on them. Their riders fought back, and the Wargs attempted to as well. Duvaineth did well dodging and parrying the attacks, and managing to kill a small number of Orcs and their mounts, but not all. And then there came a searing pain shooting through her abdomen and all became but a very distant memory to her, so distant she could recall little as she fell to her knees. She remembered the sword striking her abdomen, staying in its place, and a great pain shooting through her entire body as she fell back. Defeated, darkness took her.

It was brief and when she awoke, a snarling Warg baring its teeth hovered over her face. The remainder of the Orcs sneered at her, but she did not hear them, her heart pounding heavily in her ears. "Leave her. She will be dead before we can have our fun," one Orc laughed wickedly. And then they were gone, certain her wounds would take hold of her.

And Duvaineth was certain, too.

~~~~~~~~

"My Lord Éomer, ahead! A horse!"

The Third Marshall lifted his head and looked ahead among the dry heaths. Indeed, it was a horse, and galloping at a speed he had never seen one ride before. "It is frightened." He meant to speak quietly to himself, but instead he spoke in a loud voice. He mustered an ungainly apology for who he was speaking with before their interruption and spurring into a gallop, riding towards the frightened, fleeing white horse, and calling behind him for someone to follow.

Still mounted, Éomer reached the frightened horse and hastily but gently reached over and grasped its reins before it could be out of touching distance. "Whoa! Whoa, there! Easy, little one….Be not afraid." He gently stroked the steed’s mane as he softly spoke in the Rohirric tongue. It eased the horse, but not much and not for long either. Soon, the horse was neighing loudly and rising on her hind legs, forcing Éomer to tighten his grip on the reins and gently pull her back towards him. She did not obey, however, and continued to fight.

Éomer again reared the horse back and continued to stroke its mane. As gentle as the touches were and the attempt to soothe its nerves, the effect was little. Déor, the rider that had followed, wondered out loud, speaking in a curious tone, "What could have brought it in such distress?"

Upon the question, the horse reacted as if she were answering. She reared back again, but this time her head turned towards the east. Éomer followed the horse’s gaze, and immediately an ill feeling fell upon this heart. The mare had not come alone, the Horse-lord was certain of. "It tries to tell us something. I fear it may have a master and they are in trouble."

Quickly, Éomer dismounted his horse and moved to the other one, murmuring soft words as he carefully mounted. The horse allowed him, stopping its rough movements and standing still to allow him to settle in the saddle without rearing him off. "Gather half of the éored. We ride east."

"My lord! What if there is a large army whence the stallion came? We shall need more than half of them."

"We will soon learn the truth of the matter, no?" Éomer smirked. Without another word, the Horse-lord held onto the reins and turned the mare towards where she had gestured earlier. But before he could urge her forward, she let out a loud neigh and charged in a swift, almost alarming gallop. He had ridden across many plains in his life, and swiftly so, but never before had he ridden a horse with so much speed, against the wind itself no less.

There was little to see upon arrival at the sight, for it was almost barren save for the several bodies of Orcs, and a lesser number of Wargs. But there in the center of the field underneath a tree lay a lithe body. As Éomer dismounted, he noticed the person's breathing was shallow. He was alive. Relieved, but not slowing in haste, he quickly rushed to their side and knelt at the ground, but he stopped as astonishment swept over him. This was no Man. Nay, it was a woman, and no mere sword-bearer indeed. The carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs proved otherwise. But then Éomer noticed something, something rather strange, poking from the side of her hair. Carefully, he moved a few strands from their face and found the answer to his curiosities.  
This was neither man nor woman, but an Elf.

Before he could dwell on the discovery, Éomer noticed the sword imbedded in her abdomen. Blood seeped from the wound, but it was the only wound that appeared to be the most severe out of the rest. He also took notice of the arrow in her shoulder, and one in each leg. Cuts and scratches adorned her cheeks and hands, and the sleeves of her tunic were partially ripped, revealing fresh, but smaller wounds. It was when he lifted his gaze to the injured Elf's face that he saw the deepest, most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen staring at him. So she is conscious, Éomer thought as relief washed over him. He inwardly sighed.

She was looking at him, but her focus was scarce, and it was doubtful she knew of her surroundings. But he needed to know if she could hear him, and more importantly, if she could speak.

"Can you hear me?" he asked her, and received a slight nod in response. "Good," he said. "Do not move, my lady. Your wound will worsen should the blade move any further."

As he slowly, and very carefully, lifted the Elf in his arms to lay her half up right, he could not stop himself from wincing at both the painful sight and the gentle gasps and whimpers coming from her mouth. Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to speak, and it took several tries before she was able to force them out. "How…." She stopped and took a respite from speaking to gather her breath, finding it difficult to speak, but only a soft moan came instead of her words. But he knew what she was trying to ask.

Her voice was hoarse and sounded weak. Weariness was heavy in her tone. Éomer paused, his fingers now brushing against the hilt of the sword to grab it. He looked at her. "Your stallion is a very persistent companion, my lady," he answered her, forcing what he thought was a smile.

"Duvaineth," the Elf gasped. "You may call me Duvaineth…Horse-lord." Her breathing was becoming ragged.

"Duvaineth." Éomer nodded. "Your horse led me here. He was in great distressed, and no matter my attempts he would not be calmed. Then he led me east, and such is how I found you."

"She. Her name is Gilroch."" Despite the severity of the situation, she still managed to find humor in it and smiled.

"My apologies. Stay still." Éomer grasped the hilt of the sword. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised and eyes apologetic. "This will hurt." And slowly he pulled the blade from her body. It was not painless as he had said, but Duvaineth had felt worse, and despite this, she could not hold back the groans as her body burned with a torturous pain. At last, the blade was withdrawn from her and Duvaineth was left gulping for breath, and for a short time her heart pounded in her chest.  
Éomer stared at the Orc blade with a dark look in his eyes, but his gaze was soon drawn to the injured Elf in his arms. He smiled at her, a soft light in his brown eyes. "I am Éomer, and you will not die this day. I give you my word."

Duvaineth managed a small smile before the weariness was too heavy on her. The pain had caused great strain on her body, and slowly she slipped into a deep slumber. Éomer's gaze was no longer on the Elf in his arms, but on the blade that had been imbedded in her. He held it tightly in his hand. The mere look at it both angered and disgusted him. The vile smell coming from the blade did not ease his revulsion. However, he soon realized the blade did not smell of only Orc and blood. This was a different smell. Looking more closely at the blade, Éomer saw a strange liquid intermixed with the Elven maiden's blood. It was thick and dark looking. He immediately knew what it was.

It was the loud neigh of a horse that broke him from his reverie and he looked behind him, startled but only briefly. It was his éored, having come as instructed by the command of their Marshall. Déor was the only one to dismount and came rushing to his lord, too kneeling at his side. The expression on his face upon realizing the warrior in Éomer's arms was in fact a woman, and an Elf at that, would have been more amusing to the Horse-lord were the situation not grave. "A…A…" He could not even utter the words out.

"An Elf," Éomer finished for him, a light hint of amusement in his tone, though he knew that was not what he was astonished by. Before another word could be spoken, Éomer's face quickly hardened and creased into a deep frown, and his eyes turning dark. "The blade used upon her had been coated in a lethal liquid. She has been poisoned. We must take her to Edoras – now."

Gilroch showed to be less agreeable with Éomer. She refused to allow the Horse-lord to come anywhere near her without her mistress within sight, and nearly kicked Éomer in the face. He successfully dodged the near attack and, despite wishing to not submit the Elf with too much movement that the journey would certainly provide, was forced to carry the Elf over to the stallion in fear of nearly being kicked in the face again, causality he wished to avoid. She was a stout mare, Éomer would say that much. The ride to Edoras was brief, but he doubted it was near comfortable for Duvaineth. She drifted in and out of consciousness several times, and was awake to feel a very uncomfortable jolt as they passed over the plains. She certainly felt it and, though her noises of pain were quiet, Éomer heard them. And so did Gilroch, who did not take the painful sounds coming from her mistress lightly, and so sped faster.

At last, the small mound that was Edoras was within sight and hastily Éomer rode through the gate. He paid little mind to the stationed guards and did not perform his custom to acknowledge them. Éomer's eyes were affixed elsewhere; a tall and majestic building that he looked upon with pride. Meduseld, his home. If only he returned with good tidings. Éomer did not waste another moment when he arrived to the flight of stairs leading to the great home. He swiftly dismounted and took the Elf in his arms, hastily climbing the stairs as he shouted orders to those about him. "Send for the Lady Éowyn, and be swift! Tell her I bring a guest in need of immediate healing, lest her death be upon our hands!"

Éomer rushed in Meduseld and sought an empty room, ignoring the puzzled looks and questions he received. He entered the nearest room and brought her to the bed, gently laying her down. The room was not much; it was small, but provided the necessities needed. He went about the room, fetching supplies that his sister would need. As Éomer brought the supplies to the bedside table, the door to the room flew open and a woman with golden hair and bright eyes rushed inside, stopping near the bedside of Duvaineth. Her eyes lifted to the Horse-lord without more ado. "Éomer!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "What has happened?"

"I will tell you later," Éomer promised. "She needs to be healed." He looked at the injured Elf beside him and then at his sister, his eyes conveying the urgency. "Immediately, Éowyn."

Éowyn only nodded. She leaned over and sought the wounds their guest bore, grimacing when she saw the long and deep gash on her abdomen. "This looks not to be a simple wound. Verily, Éomer, never do your returns lack surprises."  
"It is becoming a regular occurrence, to be sure," Éomer scowled.

Éowyn did not answer him. She dipped the washcloth in the water and held it to the wound. "Have you any further surprises for me?" It was a murmur, spoken as a bitter jest. But as Éomer gazed at the pale, sleeping Elf, he hoped he would not again come across these 'surprises' for a long while.

"To be honest, sister," Éomer sighed, "I think I would prefer to have been pitted against a score of Orcs than to have found a dying Elf."

"I will do what I can, though little assurance can I grant you," she said quietly. "You must leave. It is not proper."

Éomer smiled to himself and slowly rose to his feet. "I know when my services are needed no longer," he said with a chuckle, and turned to the door. But he stopped and looked at his sister. "She is in good hands, Éowyn. This I know with great certainty." With a smile, Éomer turned and left.

"I hope," Éowyn murmured. She returned her attention to the septic wound and cringed at the sight, immediately searching her parcel for a particular herb.

Healing the wound was no easy task. The gash was long and deep, and much blood was already lost. Éowyn soon discovered the poison's attack on the Elf's body was slow. It brought little relief to Éowyn, however, and she wondered about the strangeness of it. Although luck was with her this day, Éowyn remained wary and concerned. She did not know for how long their injured friend had been bearing the wound, and Éomer spoke little of her. How long had the Elf been suffering the wound? Éowyn could not say, but she knew something for certain – she would heal from the wound, a lengthy time though it would take. Éowyn took joy in that at the very least, even if it was small.

Éowyn then tended to the smaller, less threatening wounds and cleaned away the blood and dirt that still remained. She then rose to her feet, finished, and let out a long sigh she did not know she had been holding. It was done. She would live. Now she needed rest – much rest.

Éowyn glanced at the door. She wondered where her brother was. It would be some time before their guest would rouse from her sleep – Éowyn wagered a good half day or so, and went in search of Éomer. She did not search for very long, for she soon found him in the hall nearby the room. He was in heavy discussion with someone, but when the door opened and Éowyn emerged from it, Éomer tore himself away from his company and went to her. His concern was evident in the depths of his hazelnut eyes. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Éowyn spoke, answering his unspoken question. "She will live and now rests. And of rest she will need plenty. To say she is well is difficult to speak. Come the time she awakens she will feel pain, and to heal her from the poison I used all my herbs. I need more if I am to ease the pain when she needs it."

"I will obtain more for you," Éomer said with a nod. His eyes shifted behind her to the door, then back to his sister. He smiled, but it fell when he saw the grey look in her eyes. "Look not so forlorn, my sister. You healed her! So smile for it."  
Éowyn ignored him. "The poison was slow. It was meant to torture her until her last breath."

"Such is the way of Orcs," Éomer replied grimly. A thin thread of sarcasm hung in his tone, his hopeful attempt to remedy his sister of her bleakness rendered only a fruitless one.  
Her brother's dry sense of humor often incited laughter from her. There was no man other than her brother who knew how to turn her frown into a smile, and keep it that way so that she would not fall into a bleak face. This time, however, Éowyn was not amused. "What happened?"

Éomer sighed and again looked at the door leading into the room their guest occupied. "If I knew, my dear sister, I would tell you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Duvaineth is fighting against her wound, Éomer must bring the matter to the king.

_"You are awake, I see. Always you savored your sleep." He stood before her, and she beheld his face in a soft glow of amber from the torch aflame he held in his hand. A smirk tugged at his lips, yet beneath the surface of his piercing green eyes, a dark look adorned them under the dim room and glow of the fire, and she saw past his roguishness. She had known him for far too long to not dismiss the sparkle of concern deep within his eyes, though it be small. The love he once openly showed hardly lingered, but it was there._

_"I am very doubtful any soul can rest in these shackles."_

_"Do not snap at me for your own misgivings. You brought this upon yourself, Elf."_

_She did not answer. Instead, she slightly lifted her head and looked at him with the eyes that had always softened him, that had always returned him to his senses when his temper beset him. It did little this time, however. He returned the gaze with his hard eyes, an eyebrow raised, expecting her to answer. When she failed to do so, the Man merely laughed and turned, and looked about the room, in which she had been held captive for a number of weeks, his back turned to her. "You were oft the one of silence. Yet I understood. Why can you not return the same to me?"_

_There was a long moment of silence. It lingered more than she desired it to, and it tugged at her heart the longer the air remained still but of breath. At length, she answered him, slow at first and her voice quiet, growing stronger as she spoke. "And yet I have prevailed." A tired smile came to her lips. "I am sure your master finds that very displeasing."_

_The Man stopped and his back stiffened. Only she could know that was a motion of annoyance. He eventually turned back to her. The smirk had departed from his lips, but the hard gaze in his eyes did not. "Indeed he does." He sighed, and pulling an old wooden chair closer to him, he slowly eased himself into it. "Your will is far too great, Duvaineth. More than his patience could ever be. He will come to grow ill-pleased. You know the custom treatment given unto our prisoners."_

_Duvaineth shook her head slightly. Her eyes glittered softly, though he did not see it; he was avoiding her gaze. "You all are prisoners. To this are you shortsighted, or be you so blinded by his ill tongue of promises that you fail to see what he does? Servants to him you are not, fulfilling his will and thusly earning of rewards. You are thralls, bounded to him, and will receive naught."_

_"Oh, rousing speech, one who speaks of hope."_

_"Círdir."_

_He looked at her. If the hardness in his eyes had faded when he kept his gaze from her, then it returned the moment she spoke his name. "Do not call me that."  
"That is your name."_

_"I must correct you. It was my name – until you ran your blade through me."_

_"You left me no choice."_

_"No." He abruptly rose from his seat, standing tall and his shoulders squared with heavy tension. "You had other choices. You chose that which you did."_

_Círdir's words only brought a smile to her lips. But it was not of joy. It was of incredulity. "Then, allow me to ask this. What of you, Círdir the Renewed? Choices were set before you, yet you chose to betray your brethren. You tormented and killed them, dismembered and dishonored them. Recall you not? Or bear you needless anger towards your own people that it has become but a distant memory?"_

_And he went away from her, her words a dark haze on his heart. It would be the last time she would see Círdir the Renewed alive._

Duvaineth awoke with a slight start, a quiet gasp escaping her lips, and forthwith was her body wracked with pain. Her movement, though it had been slight, incited pain and she could do naught but lie there in wait for it to pass. It did after some time, yet not soon enough, Duvaineth thought. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes as she tried to relax her body into her bedding – which was soft and felt cool to the touch, and was rather comforting to her tired and aching body. She felt weak, her skin moist and cool by the perspiration that had begun to form, and her heart madly racing. She already felt weariness creeping upon her. Opening her eyes, Duvaineth gazed up at the ceiling above her. Her eyebrows furrowed. Turning her head, she looked up at the window nearby where she laid. A soft, dim light shined through the glass and bathed the room in a warm, amber glow. She guessed it was now evening, or close. The time of the day was no concern to her, however.

Duvaineth could not remember taking refuge from the open plains of Enedwaith, nor could she remember falling asleep in bedding where the ground was not beneath her. It dawned on her; no more was she in the wild. If she was not, then where was she? It was a wonder, but before Duvaineth could dwell on it further she was swept with a heavy wave of lethargy. She was unable to resist the calling to sleep; her mind was tired and her body more so, and the continuous throbbing pain coursing through her body only made her wakefulness wretched. It was but a blur in a candlelit fire, and a moment later she fell into a deep slumber, the little but strenuous efforts having been a great strain on her.

But little were her dreams pleasant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Éomer strode in brisk, quiet strides as he made his way down the empty corridor. He passed a small number of men on his way; no more than two at the very least, and returned their acknowledgement of his presence with a nod. But his mind was not concerned with acknowledging their respect as he passed them. His mind was elsewhere on a different matter. Éomer was uncertain how he would present the news to his uncle about their new guest. However, that matter was the least of his concerns. His true worry was Théoden King's Council, and if they would or would not be in the presence of the king. Éomer thought not ill of them, for he thought well of them and favored their guidance and wisdom, yet he knew it would be trying to dismiss the council from the king once they had heard of the pressing matter that was at hand, and more so would it be if Grima Wormtongue was present.

Wormtongue. The mere thought was poison on his tongue. Were it not for him being the king's advisor, Éomer would have seen to his departure long ago. His presence was little desired by him, and he was not the only one who desired him to leave. He was an ill man who spoke ill tidings with his tongue, his eyes gleaming darkly and eagerly and was often set upon his sister. The mere thought angered Éomer, and it was then he noticed he had clenched his hands into fists. If he did not like the Man for his sole appearance and voicing his opinions disrespectfully so, then it was his lust for Éowyn that which he detested him for.

When Éomer arrived at the Golden Hall, he half expected to hear hushed voices echoing in the large hall. He did not, and took a long pause straining to hear any voices that mayhap alerted him of his uncle's council in presence. When he received no an answer to his wonder, though taking the silence yet as a good sign, Éomer quietly moved behind a post and glanced from the side. He saw no one, and the king's counselors showed no sign of being within sight, much to the great relief of Éomer. There was only one present in the hall. Kingly, he appeared, sitting on the throne; his head raised high and proud, and his gentle but stern eyes staring before him. His face bore no smile or feeling, but it was clear he was quite content sitting in the silence that had been given to him, and Éomer was loath to disturb his uncle from what was perchance a moment of peace from the overseeing of his council; it was a rarity even for Éomer to breathe without someone at his side.

Éomer stepped away from hiding and walked forward, approaching him. He was greeted with a smile – such Éomer had not seen for some time, as his uncle's time was heavily consumed with many meetings concerning matters of the Mark with his council and allies, and most often, saved for a very small number, many were greeted with a sigh and a look of disdain shadowing his features. Éomer had expected the latter, but was pleasantly surprised. Nonetheless, he happily accepted the greeting. "My nephew! Come. It has been some time since I have seen a friendlier and less irate face."

"Have care with your words, uncle," Éomer grinned. "I am a Man who enjoys a challenge, and will take any string of words as an offering of it."

"And so you do!" Théoden heartily chuckled. "But let there be none of that today. I wish to enjoy your company, not spar with you."

"Do you not find sparing as enjoyable as you do my company?"

"Only when you lose."

Éomer roared with laughter, his uncle quickly following suit. Their laughter quelled after some time, and Éomer became serious. "Forgive me, uncle. I know how little your time spares you from the burdens of your counselors and everyday matters that find their way to you, but I have a matter I must bring to you most urgently."

Théoden did not sound or show his displeasure. It was the wary look in his eyes that told Éomer his words were far from appealing to him. But he nodded and with a wave of his hand, Théoden gave admittance. "Tell me, then, and let us be rid of it as quickly as we can. Seldom is it I receive peace from my duties, and I would fain indulge in them for as long as I may before again my duties beckon me."

"Yes. Of course." Éomer cleared his throat and after briefly forming the words he wished to say in his head, and thinking to his encounter with the Elf – Duvaineth, she had told him was her name. "There is a new guest in your halls. She is called Duvaineth, and she is wounded. I came upon her in the fields of the West-mark as I was scouting those lands upon your order. She bore a grievous wound and with as much haste that could be mustered I bore her here. Éowyn has healed her, and she now rests. Forgive me, uncle. I should have sought your consent before settling her so comfortably in your home, but her life was in my hands. I could not let her suffer—"

Théoden raised his hand, silencing him. "You need no forgiveness of mine, my nephew. What wrong have you done? None at all! You saved one's life, and such is more than I could ever beseech of you while you perform your duty I had bid you to do. I would deny no person that bears hurts a home, a grievous wound least of them all! You did well, Éomer."

Éomer bowed his head. "Thank you, uncle. Éowyn is with her at present, I believe. I left her, as she was beginning to look over her wounds."

"How long ago was this?"

"Not too long ago," Éomer replied. "Mayhap an hour, two at the most. I had to make quick arrangements to gather some healing herbs she may need hereafter, should she fall short of herbs for soothing the wounds of our guest."

"And I have finished." Éowyn appeared, pausing to bow to her uncle. Her appearance was lesser than when Éomer had seen her last. Her face was strewn with a heavy frown and her eyes tired; her long golden hair, which ere had been let down to flow freely, was now restrained in a tight bun with several long strands of hairs having escaped and clung to the moist skin of her neck and cheeks. The urgency of their guest's health had left a heavy weight on her, and the toils were now beginning to settle upon her.

"Has she awakened yet?"

"Only once, but it was brief. I gave her some water."

"And her wounds?"

"It took a great extort of energy and many supplies that which I am now spent of, but I have healed her wounds. I gave her a tincture to help counteract the poison. Now she needs rest."

Théoden's eyebrows rose in interest, yet behind the curiosity was deep concern. "Poison? You say she was poisoned?"

Noticing the heavy weariness about his sister, Éomer spoke before she could open her mouth, speaking grimly, "Yes, she was. When I found her, there was a blade imbedded in her abdomen, and when I withdrew it from her body I smelled a very strong odor from it. I knew the smell too well to be unmindful of it."

"Orcs," Théoden said despondently. "Such is the favorable custom to their enemies: torture."

"I foresee her becoming well in the coming days, though her recovery will be slow," Éowyn said. "But she will live."

"And we will let her rest," Théoden said. "I ask that you watch after her, Éowyn. See to her hurts and comfort. For now, rest. Very weary you are now, and well deserved it is."

"Indeed!" Éomer agreed. "You need sleep just as our guest does. For surely, if you weary yourself so, then it will be I who will carry you to bed myself," he added with a grin.

Éowyn laughed softly and nodded. "Very well. I will go and rest, and will return to our guest in a little while."

"Good then." Théoden nodded approvingly, smiling. "You spoke of your supplies to have been depleted in the event to further heal any hurts, yes? I do believe Éomer has remedied that issue, and you will be fully stocked with whatever you need."

"Yes," Éomer confirmed. "Amid your time of tending to Duvaineth, as promised I went and gathered for you some herbs. I know little of healing, but I bought them upon the recommendation of the woman who gave me the herbs, and they will prove useful should you need them. Should you need something specific, only say the word and it will be provided."

"Ah!" Éowyn said. "Duvaineth is her name? I will have to remember that, then. Thank you, brother. You truly are a blessing."

"Now go," Éomer said with a nod in the direction of the hall to their left. "Rest, sister. I will see you this evening."

She started to turn away when Théoden's voice stopped her as he rose from his seat. "I should like to escort you to your bedchambers, if you will allow it. So little do I receive the opportunity of peace, and I would fain revel in such time free of such irritation with my beautiful niece as often as I may. I do not spend it with you enough."

A soft smile graced Éowyn's lips. She bowed her head. "I would be honored, my lord."

With a last farewell and bidding to his sister to rest, Éomer turned and departed from them as they too left, going their own way. His walk was short and had little excitement, for he dwelled on his thoughts. It came to an end, however, when Éomer heard a shout. Shaken out of his reverie, he looked up and saw one from his éored approaching him with haste, a frightened look about him as if he had seen a great host of enemies. When he came to a stop before his Marshall, he was frazzled and out of breath, and hunched over his knees as he tried to properly regain his breath. "My lord…the white horse…you have brought, the one belonging to the Elf…refuses to be handled. She still remains at the stairs of Meduseld, and rears back and struggles, and rises on her hind legs. She kicked a few men to the ground who dared to near her. The horse is mad!"

Were the situation not so trying for his men, Éomer would have laughed. He even found himself chuckling, but it ceased upon the ill amusement on the Man's face, and he wondered what Éowyn would do were she with him. She would have given him a look, undoubtedly. Éomer inwardly smiled at that. He then grew serious, and with a pat to the Man's shoulder, Éomer turned and began walking down the hall to the great hall again. "I assure you. The horse is anything but mad."

When Éomer departed the Golden Hall, he saw that the Man's words had not been spoken in exaggeration. There was Gilroch at the feet of the flight of stairs leading to Meduseld, a small number of his éored attempting to take control of the reigns and pull her to the stables, but every attempt was folly as she refused and reared back. She rose on her hind legs once or twice, and nearly caused one to tumble to the ground. Éomer found the display rather amusing and stood there watching for a moment, but quickly he noticed the distress the mare was in and with hurried steps, he walked down the stairs to his men. "Enough!" he bellowed, and immediately upon hearing his voice, the Men stopped and looked at their Marshall with such relief that Éomer had never seen before in them, and he nearly laughed out loud again. But now was not the time for laughs. "You are causing the horse great distress. Leave her be!"

The small number of his éored that remained moved out of the way as their Marshall came forward. He took the reins from one and with soft words and a firm but gentle pull at the leather cords, Éomer brought her closer. At first Gilroch refused to relent, and quite harshly so. Even Éomer struggled to pull her back to him, but he continued the efforts gently, and all the while murmuring words of comfort in Rohirric. If she could understand his tongue, he did not know; but it soothed her, and at last she relented to him and allowed the Horse-lord to go near. Éomer reached out and tenderly stroked her neck, continuing with his gentle words. "There, there, little one," Éomer murmured affectionately to the stallion. "You are safe. No harm will come to you."  
After great length in tender words and loving caresses, Gilroch was calm. Éomer heard some let out sighs of relief while others murmured words to one another. The Horse-lord did not hear much of what was spoken, only a small number. He distinctively caught a few words, however; 'mad', 'Elf', and 'curse' were among them. He heard them clearer than the rest. The Men of the Mark were somewhat wary of new wonderers, the Elves being the least desirable kindred to enter their beloved land. They were often ill thought of, believed to be evil of some kind bearing sorcery. It was long said they had a great "queen" hidden in the depths of trees in a forest named Lothlórien. Éomer hardly paid much mind to such conversations between his brethren; if anything he entertained himself to hear their talk.

The days had become darker and bearing lesser friends, that much was true; even he himself had long become wary of strange wanderers coming into the Mark, but he thought little of Elves. He certainly thought them not to be some evil soul carrying with them a dark magic. He was given little time to be wary of Duvaineth as a poisoned sword was imbedded in her abdomen. Though her situation was rather curious to him, and he had little to explain to himself what may have transpired, her wounds had not been staged. The Orcs littered on the ground spoke very strongly of the battle that occurred, and while Éomer felt he should be wary at least to a small degree, he verily doubted she meant any harm.

"Surely this horse is under a dark spell," one of his éored said.

"Yes, it would offer little surprise, if at all, to learn that Elf-witch placed the mare under her spell."

"It is a pity—"

"Enough!" Éomer whipped around and glowered at them with hard eyes. "The horse is under no spell, nor is the owner of any sorcery. She is foreign to our people just as we are to hers. What makes her a wielder of dark magic? Is it because she is an Elf? Foolish words you then speak, and boldly so. She could think us as ruthless Men with little care to that which breathes. If you feel she is truly of danger, then do go before Théoden King and tell him of this, for I am sure he would take absolute delight in hearing such about the guest in his home."

None spoke. They dared not even to share glances. "Well, then, my brethren," Éomer nodded at their sudden silence, "I advise you, Riders of the Mark, think before you speak and take great caution in your words and assumptions of one who needs aid. We risk our lives in the fields of our home, fighting and protecting what we love and hold dear to us. It is where that our wits are required of us. Surely you can afford to retain your common sense, with your tongue of all if not your decisions, when you stand not at battle. Even at home causing offense to one is very unwise, just as it is unwise to let your guard down in the fields of battle."

Having spoken his mind, and desiring not to hear words that had yet to be spoken by any of his men who would want to, Éomer turned his back to them with a sharp turn. Now faced with the mare, his gentle nature won over his sternness, and with a soft click of his tongue, he then led her away from the Meduseld and bore her to the stables. There, he tended to her, giving her a bit to eat and allowing her to quench her thirst. He sat on a stool nearby watching her, and though a headache had come to presence, the Horse-lord could not help but smile as Gilroch hastily drank from the trough. "You are very thirsty. I do not doubt it. You had quite the trial today, yet you prevailed well against it and saved your mistress from certain peril."  
Éomer rose to his feet and went to the horse. He ran his hand over her side, lightly patting her in appraisal. "All she needs is rest and time to heal from her hurts, and I doubt not you too need your own respite. Rest well assured; the one who you bear through many roads will be well."

Éomer brought her to an empty pen and saw to her comfort one last time before leaving the stables. He found himself stopping for a brief moment to gather his own respite, having not realized he had been on his feet without pause since the moment he returned to Edoras. Despite how tiring it was, Éomer preferred it as so. Many a thought were on his mind and he found the distraction to be somewhat uplifting. He bore a frown far too often than he desired to but he could not see himself smiling during such times. Darkness went on to creep over the earth, shrouding them in a great fog. War was threatening the very existence of Middle-earth, and all that breathed and walked upon it. The Riddermark alone struggled against the advances of their enemies. Éomer hardly found reason to smile. So scarce it was whenever he did smile that it felt very foreign.

Although he did find the absurdity of his men to be quite amusing, despite the indignation of it, it had been rather refreshing. Humor had long been spent from him. Mayhap some things were possible.  
Éomer sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was not yet past noon and already he felt tired. He looked where he had last been at the steps to Meduseld and shook his head. It would be a very long day indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duvaineth and Éomer meet once more, and she finds a quickly growing friendship with the Lady Éowyn, along with an invitation she cannot refuse.

When Duvaineth came to the realization that she had been staring in the darkness of her surroundings, she wondered for how long she had been awake. Surely not for very long. All had not passed her by so quickly, or had it indeed? She could not say. It felt not long, though time often slipped past her like whispers of the wind, swiftly and quietly. Mayhap it was best she did not know, Duvaineth thought, for she was certain her cringe would be very noticeable if she learned just how much time had passed since she was last in the world of wakefulness. Yet even so, it gnawed at her like a beast upon its meal. Had she not miserably failed in the attempt to rise from her bedding, Duvaineth would have sought to find an entrance so she might discover the truth of her surroundings, should she succeed in even sitting up. She fell back into her bedding with a quiet sigh, wincing slightly as a sharp jolt of pain coursed through her abdomen from her movement.

"Here." A Man approached her. In his hand he held a small goblet and extended it to her. "Drink this. It will help strengthen you."

Duvaineth shakily accepted the goblet and took a small sip. It was water; fresh and cold, and it tasted sweet, like honey. She took another sip, and this time hastily gulped it down until it was emptied. "Thank you," she said hoarsely and she returned it to him. "What was it?"

"Holy Basil," he replied. "It is an herb. I crushed a small portion and mixed it into water."

"I am familiar with Holy Basil." Duvaineth nodded slowly and managed what she thought was a smile. "Thank you."

Her eyes fell to the window next to her. It was night, and darkness veiled the room save for the dim light a small number of burning candles provided, one which stood on the bedside table. Her mind, where ere it had been heavily fogged, was beginning to clear. What had been a faraway memory was returning, slowly but surely. She was in Rohan, that much Duvaineth knew. She had been chased into the land by Orcs and their beasts, and had sorely lost the battle and was left to a slow and painful death, yet it was clear such did not come to her. All then seemed a mere blur as she slipped in and out of consciousness, time but a flicker in the dark.

Duvaineth shot a brief glance at the Man who had given her the water. His back was turned to her at present, returning the now empty goblet to its proper place. At the door stood an older woman, silent and her eyes fixed ahead of her, but Duvaineth's gaze on her was brief before returning to the Man. He was familiar and she now knew why. This was the Man who had come to her aid on the back of Gilroch. Though the fog had cleared from her mind and she was able to now think more properly, should her mind allow her when yet still fatigued, her memory failed her. She remembered little: the Orcs riding their beasts, the long chase into Rohan, and then the cold steel of an Orc's blade going through her body. Her encounter with the Horse-lord was at present scarce to her memory as well, but little by little it returned to her, yet greatly it yet remained blurred all the same.

She must have had a look of confusion upon her face, for the Man – Éomer, she remembered – turned and saw the look on her face and spoke, "You were gravely wounded. I rode with great speed to Edoras, where here my sister healed you of your wounds. For five days you slept, save for the brief stirrings long enough to keep you hydrated."

Five days. She was less surprised than she thought she would be, having had expected a greater length of her unconsciousness. And yet she thought to herself that, surely, it had not been so long. Plainly it had, indeed. The thought was soon gone from her mind and another came, one that struck her with great worry. "And Gilroch?" she then asked. "Where is my horse? Is she safe?"

"The brave and very stubborn mare! She is safe," Éomer assured. "She was taken to the stables and has since been tended to. She is well and unharmed."

Relief flooded over her worn features, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "That is joyous to hear. I am glad. I would thank your sister when granted the chance, and you as well, Horse-lord, for if not for your aid and hers I would not be here."  
"You will soon have the chance to thank her," Éomer said. "Since your arrival she has remained at your side, and so great was her vigilance in tending to your wounds that I can little relay how often she treated them. She now sleeps. It was her request that I see to your comfort before retiring to my bedchambers, and look here! You have awoken. To hear this she will be most glad."

"Wholly glad would I be in expressing to her my gratitude for all she has done for the sake of my life," Duvaineth said. "And yet out of all I must thank you, for you had delivered me to safety. It is so, for my life was at your very feet! You gave me mercy, and such clemency is more than I can say for any other Man who may have come upon me. Thank you, Horse-lord."

"Nay, call me not such! I believe we forego such formalities when we exchange names upon our first encounter," Éomer chuckled, to which she responded with a smile. "If as Horse-lord you so address me, then I shall do the same and call you Elf. Call me Éomer, and whatever name you would wish to be called I will hereafter speak, should it not be Duvaineth."

"You remember my name."

"Of course," Éomer said. "It is a unique name, and one I had yet to hear. Such a name is difficult to forget."

"Very well," Duvaineth agreed. "I will call you Éomer, so long as you call me Duvaineth."

"So be it, then!" Éomer said. "And now that we have reached an accord, I think it is best if you sleep some more, for verily, you look worn and in need of rest. As my sister bade, I have come and saw to your comfort, and glad I am to see that you have awoken. But now I bid you to rest."

Duvaineth nodded. "I will, should sleep come to me. Scarcely does it come, but tonight I do feel weary and I think I will have little trouble finding sleep." But would she be visited by dreams or left to a peaceful slumber, she wondered.  
"Good! Then I will leave you to your privacy, but ere I depart, I must first insist you help yourself to water. For some days now you have slept, and thusly consumed very little. I will rest easier at the knowing you have had something."  
"Because you insist, I will." Duvaineth smiled. "I mind not, regardless. The water is quite sweet on my tongue. I rather like the flavor."

And so Éomer again filled the goblet with the water that had the herb mixed in and Duvaineth, rather thirsty herself, drank the water until the there was no more. Afterwards, Éomer bid her a final goodnight, offering a slight smile, and then left – but not without glancing at her once more on his way out. The door closed and his footsteps disappeared, and Duvaineth was now left alone. She sighed as she leaned back into the comforts of her bed, and her eyes danced around the room. If she hoped to see any of her surroundings, then it was fruitless, for she could see very little but what the dim burning flicker of the candles could provide. Despite the shortcoming of its use, she did not mind. She was able to see the shadows in the room, and it was good enough for her; though there were very few shapes that stood.

Weariness was now beginning to creep upon her, its thick cloudy air stronger than before. Duvaineth loathed the thought of sleeping, though she promised the Horse-lord she would. Yet in the midst of her displeasure, there was a part of her that wished to. Would she sleep dreamlessly, or would the nightmares come to haunt her? Even if she was tired not, it would be some time before the Sun would rise, and what then would she do in the hours of twilight?

Duvaineth sighed again. She would sleep, should it be dreamless or not. She knew she needed it, and so she slipped into slumber; and much to the pleasantry of her fearful mind, she slept dreamlessly and peacefully that which she could not remember she last had.

When Duvaineth next awoke, it was morning. She felt better; weariness was not overpowering her as it once did, and she felt her strength renewed. Her mind was now clear of its fog and she was able to think more properly, a gain she was most grateful for. She wondered if it was the effect of the Holy Basil. Though her body ached, a bright burning sensation coming from her abdomen, it was not as painful as she remembered it to be. But she was not alone. A woman with long, golden wavy hair stood near her bedside. She was facing Duvaineth, but her attention was deeply diverted on her task in disposing of the worn and dirtied bindings that, from what Duvaineth could only assume, had been used for her injury. However, at the soft shuffling coming from the bed upon her movement, the woman's head immediately lifted and her eyes fell on Duvaineth.

She smiled. "It is true! You have awoken, and appear not so weary that you will fall back into slumber as you hitherto have. How do you feel?"

"Well," Duvaineth replied, "at the very least I am sore and at the littlest of movement my abdomen burns, but I fare better than I once did. Are you who healed me of my grievances?"

"I am. My name is Éowyn," the woman said. "You were brought here well-nigh a week ago, bearing a wound most disturbing to any healer's eyes, yet so often such a wound comes in sight. My brother Éomer was who bore you here. You are very fortunate."

"I am indeed," Duvaineth said with a slight smile. "I have met your brother. We spoke brief words to each other when he found me, and thereafter until yester night when he saw to my comfort I remember little."

"Yes. He told me of his encounter with you last night," Éowyn replied. "Served he the Holy Basil to you as I asked him?"

"He did."

"Wonderful!" A bright smile lit her face. "It will help with your recovery. I ask that you continue to take it. It will quicker heal your wound as well."

Duvaineth nodded in agreement, offering a smile, but she said nothing. Éowyn returned to cleaning as she remained silent, and at length Duvaineth spoke when a curiosity came upon her. "You spoke I bore a disturbing wound upon my arrival, a wound you tell is often borne. What wound was this? There are many as such spoken of."

Éowyn wavered, a look of disquiet on her once smiling features. She paused in what she was doing and fully turned to her, and spoke in a soft voice. "You were poisoned. Éomer described it as an Orc blade. It is a dreadful wound Men of the Riddermark have returned with many a time, and some not returning at all, but the tale of their demise relayed. Those who do return yet still alive with a poisonous wound either succumb to it or heal from it. You have done the latter."

"Then I am indeed most fortunate and have much to thank you and your brother for, Lady Éowyn. I thank you, truly I do," Duvaineth answered, her voice quiet as if she were dismayed by her words, and yet she smiled nonetheless, a kind light in her dark eyes.

"And you are welcome to it," Éowyn said benevolently. "I would not have left you to suffer and die. Nor would have my brother allowed such a fate be done unto you. Man or woman, or Elf, it matters not." She then offered a smile and turned away briefly, returning with a platter of food: Warm broth and two slices of bread. Alongside the bowl of soup was also a goblet filled with clear liquid that Duvaineth registered as water, the sweet aroma from it filling her nostrils she knew to be Holy Basil.  
"I brought you something to eat on my way here. It is not much, but is as it should be. You have gone nigh a week without food. It is best to slowly fuel your appetite. I bid you eat, even if you feel you cannot."

Duvaineth ate slowly, and Éowyn sat with her. They spoke of many things of pleasantries, an affair that had not come in some time for the Elf. Even though she felt starved as her stomach angrily roared in need of food, and the strongest urge to swallow it wholly was beset upon her, Duvaineth savored the delectable taste. All through her journey all she had to eat was bread and fruit, and the small occasion of a buck when given the chance to hunt. Quickly it became tiring to eat and she soon missed the warm and generously large meals in Imladris. The broth and bread was small compared to what Duvaineth was accustomed to, but gladly she ate it to the very last crumb until all there left was her yet untouched water.

Picking up the goblet, Duvaineth brought it to her lips and took a deep sip, sighing as the cool beverage washed down her dry throat. Her eyes suddenly became interested in the goblet she held in her hand. It was silver and bore decoration that was elegant and beautiful. Verily, it was quite elegant and beautiful. Her eyes lifted to Éowyn. "This is a stunning goblet. Whose home might I be in? It is far too opulent to belong to a commoner."

"Your words are true. Belong it does not to a commoner," Éowyn answered. "You are a guest in mine uncle's home, Théoden, King of the Mark. He has learned of your hurts and bids you rest, and to mend well. And once you are well he wishes for you to dine with him. He will take great pleasure in it and desires to know better his guest than what he knows now."

"Your uncle is very gracious. Please extend to him my gratitude," Duvaineth said. "As for dining with him, it would be my own pleasure to do so, particularly if it will allow me to personally thank him."

Four days had since passed. Duvaineth continued to improve by the day, the healing touch of the Holy Basil a great help as it slowly regenerated her strength. Yet it would be some time ere she would be capable of walking without it causing her strain. Rising from bed alone was a difficult task, one that was slow and incited soreness from her efforts, and beseeched much patience from her. Having spent many a year dwelling in Imladris, and having spent them in the company of Lord Elrond for as long as her memory willed her, Duvaineth had long learned such a virtue, but she herself found it to be quickly thinning. Her wound had been deep and not many wounds heal quickly, although the Holy Basil proved to being a great assistance to her recovery and Éowyn's talents in healing numbed away the pain.

Despite this, Duvaineth greatly desired to be free from the chains of her bed. A week and a half had since passed her arrival to Meduseld. She remembered Éowyn telling her Théoden King bid her well and a swift recovery, in hopes she soon may dine with him. Understanding ever so was the King of Rohan in her inability to do very much. Yet, Duvaineth found little good in the thought of making wait a king for the appearance of his guest, for she had been keeping him long in wait and she was more than eager to escape her bed, no matter how soft it was. Unwell or not, Duvaineth would dine tonight with the King of Rohan.

Éowyn was concerned at first, but Duvaineth merely waved it off with a smile and reassuring words, though silently feeling doubtful in how well it would all come to pass. Éowyn relented after some time and began making preparations for Duvaineth to appear more appropriately before the king, for her torn tunic and breeches were not complimentary. However, for Duvaineth, the process of easing out of bed was one of many words, and though she felt less pain and it required a small amount of extortion from her, her limbs were very unfamiliar to such movements and need of strength after being abed for so long. But she succeeded and grinned in victory, yet she wondered how she would ever be able to return to it. She would not think on that at the moment, though the image of her attempting to shuffle back into her bedding while minding her wound was rather amusing, even to her.

Yet even amid her own amusement, Duvaineth worried. She could only hope the night would fare well for her. She knew little of Rohan and her people, and lesser was her desire to, but she knew the ill thoughts they bore to the Elves; evil, possessing a dark power and besetting a spell upon any whom they wish by the mere glance at their eyes and the slightest sound from their tongues. She knew even less of their king. Would he show her courtesy, or did he too carry the ill behavior of his people? Duvaineth sighed and shook her head to herself, removing the thoughts far from her mind. She should not be so quick to judge, for she knew not of Théoden King and his demeanor. If he is the uncle to Éowyn then indeed, his behavior was that of a good Man, and she would return the same kindness to him that had been extended to her, whether he knew of her Race or no, even if no kindness were given to her thereafter.

"The fields fare well, my king. No Orc dare roam our lands, and if any foolishly do they will not withstand my éored." Éomer slowly sat in one of the many chairs at the wide table, where to his left his uncle sat in an ornate chair at the left end, who smiled in satisfaction at the news brought to him.

"These are good tidings, indeed!" Théoden said. "Continue to keep your eyes on the Westfold. Orcs may yet wander our lands. We can ill afford to assume they will not, a small number of them or none at all."  
Éomer nodded firmly. "As my king commands, so it will be done. Now…." His lips twitched into a smile. "Where is my fair sister? She is late."

"Never expect to wait any less on a woman than they do you, my nephew," Théoden said with a chuckle. "They will sorely turn your expectations sour."

"Ah," Éomer chortled. "Surely it cannot take Éowyn such time to ready herself! She requires little of it, and knows well the importance of food to Men."

"Which gives her all the more reason to take her time."

Éomer chuckled. His eyes suddenly then caught a blur at the entrance of the room, and he lifted his eyes. His sister at last had come to join them, but Éomer's eyes were not on her. Instead, he gazed upon the Elf at her side, astonished to see it was Duvaineth, on her feet and looking quite well; better than when he last saw her, and at the sight he was glad. With a smile his uncle arose, Éomer following suit, and the king extended a warm welcome to her. It was then when Duvaineth's eyes shifted to Éomer's . He simply nodded at her, and in return, Duvaineth smiled. It was small, but he found himself unable to conceal his own and returned the silent gesture. She spoke, her gaze returning to the king before her, "Thank you, Théoden King, for your kindness and most gracious hospitality extended unto me. It may be little to you to open your home to someone, for great is the Golden Hall, but to me it means more. I shall not forget it."

"Come, then!" he invited. "And feast with me and my niece and nephew, whom are very much like children to me. Let us enjoy this evening that has been given to us."

Duvaineth smiled. "It would be an honor, Théoden King."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duvaineth dines with Theoden King and his family, and grows concern by the presence of Grima Wormtongue in the king's court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who have been following this story so far and has reviewed! Your review means a lot to me. Please keep them coming! ^_^

"From whence do you hail? These are dark and strange times upon us. Scarcely do we receive guests or come upon one wandering our lands. An Elf is the least expected traveler."

"I hail from Imladris, my lord, a home to the Elves and to all those who are weary, and those who bear hurts are healed of them." Duvaineth took a light sip from her goblet. Their wine was sweet and fresh, but different. There was no other beverage that could be compared to the rich and savory sweetness that was the wine of her kin. Lowering the goblet to the table, she continued, "It has been my home for many a year, well beyond your youth."

"Beyond my youth!" Théoden roared with laughter. He incited a tender smile from his niece. His nephew, however, snickered. "Alas! If only. Do you not see an old Man when he is before you?"

"Elves do not see Mortals as aging beings."

Éomer was intrigued by her words. "Pray tell," he said, one eyebrow raised. "How do the Elves perceive them?"

"As children, imbued with life and curiosity, yet wandering the world. I speak of you as akin to children not out of contempt, but Mortals pass beyond all our understanding, I deem, for you assuredly do with mine. You are just so young, even as your life is limited. Death is unnatural for Elves, but a state we may be made to endure as a consequence of the Marring of Arda. But for Mortals death is your end, and you know it comes, yet you cling to life as though in denial of your fate, fighting it when beset with malady, refusing to be slain by even the most perilous wounds, though slain you may be. I can little understand it, this denial of fate, but a Man once spoke to me it was more of you meeting death on your own terms instead of submitting to its cold slade as cattle to the slaughter. And though you know death comes, you live for so short a time as Time is perceived by the wont of Elves. Time for me is but a commodity to measure the passing years, yet you Mortals measure every year that passes. Every month, every day, every hour even. And I can little understand it, how Mortals are so obsessive over such little time passing when to me that span of time is nothing." There was something about her voice that was enthralling. She spoke softly yet her voice was deep, and admiration was seeped in her tone. There was something else, Éomer noticed, though he could not discern. It was well hidden. 

"That is an astonishing vision through the eyes of an Elf, and one I had not yet heard of."

"I see as I see, Lord Éomer, though oft have I heard those of my kin greater in age and gen speak wondrously of your culture, words both wild and wise unto mine ears, for they say our ways are perceived as peculiar, for all that we think the ways of Men are strange, as you do us."

His lips threatened to twitch into a smile. "You speak truly. I concur with your words. Indeed we are different from each other and our ways believed to be strange, yet it should not permit our courtesy to one another to flee."

"Yes," Duvaineth said. "Let us hope it will remain, to Man or Elf, or to Man and Man."

"Indeed," Éowyn agreed. "In my time I have spent with Duvaineth, though short it has been, she has shown naught but kindness and gratitude. If this is the way of the Elves then I shall neither think nor speak ill of them, for I have been given no reason to."

"My people can be as wary as the Men of the Mark of who enters their lands, but they are welcomed and treated well with kindness in spite of their wariness," Duvaineth warned her. "Their trust is earned, however, and seldom is it done effortlessly."  
"And thus brings forth my curiosity." Théoden slightly leaned forward, his hands together in front of him. His gaze was hard pressed on Duvaineth, but they were not hard; rather, a light shone in his eyes. "Why have you come so quickly to trust my people and my home, and those who dwell here?" He raised his hand and gestured to his niece and nephew, indicating his point.

“The House of Eorl spared my life. I was given mercy when I needed it the most. Such kindness extended to one will not be forgotten, nor will the trust be so easily broken or doubted," Duvaineth answered. Her voice had sounded simple, as if there were no other way to speak of it. She leaned back into her chair and her eyes moved to Éomer, who was regarding her with great curiosity. She smiled daintily. "Would a Man of the Mark not do a deed selfsame?"

"They would indeed," Éomer replied. "Or I should hope they would! Do tell me, however, for I am very curious. What drew you hither to the Riddermark?"

"I do believe our meeting on the plains demonstrated well how that came to be, Lord Éomer." Jest hung lightly on her tongue. It was both amusing and bitter, for there was truth to her words.

Despite her ill humor, Éomer gave a short laugh. "Yes, it was. That is not how I meant, however. I would hardly call our meeting to be one of pleasantries. You were surrounded by a fair number of Orcs and Wargs. Yet it surprises me not. Often are travelers waylaid and therein fall to a very unpleasant death. I wonder. You say you hail from Imladris? What caused you to leave the borders of your home? What called you forth?"

It was a question out of sincere curiosity, and one Duvaineth did not expect to come from a Man. She was silent for a moment, and glanced around her. Théoden gazed at her from his goblet, and Éomer patiently waited, his curiosity far too great to be concealed. Éowyn, who had been seated at her side all through the evening, smiled at her. She, too, was intrigued; if she was more than her brother then she did not show it, yet her eyes were bright with excitement to hear of her travels. And then Duvaineth pondered the question – What had been her cause in departing from Imladris? Was it the heavy shroud of darkness that refused to leave her, even in peaceful lands of the Elves promising of respite? Mayhap the long years that had come to pass with her eyes veiled stubbornly to the world, or could it have been that, desiring nothing more than to ease her nightmares, she thought mayhap that unweighing her troubled mind to the beauty of the world would have helped.  
Duvaineth found her answer.

"Do you have time for a long story, my lords and lady?" she asked.

The question was one Théoden took favor in, and he reclined back in his chair as he happily accepted her offer, waving his hand kindly to her in a gesture that said 'Yes'. Éowyn herself was excited by her answer, and Éomer was deeply intrigued, leaning forward against the table just as his uncle had earlier. "You are my guest, Mistress Duvaineth. You forget how greatly we of the Riddermark indulge in tales and songs. You may speak of any story as you wish, brief or long. We will gladly hear it."

"Very well. I will tell you my tale," Duvaineth said. And so she relayed her travels to them, telling them of her cause for leaving Imladris and all which had transpired since her departure, and eventually coming to an end when Éomer had come upon her wounded and in need of aid. She had spoken true when she warned her tale was long, for indeed her tale was not short of measure. It mattered not, for the tale was enjoyed and her encounter with the Orcs was found to be most intriguing by Théoden King and Éomer. Her discovery of the riveting Elvish blade, however, was yet to be mentioned.

As much as her audience was listening, it was during her storytelling when Éomer then noticed something about Duvaineth. On her neck was a strange marking. It was dark and the mere sight of it sent shivers down his spine. And then he wondered, what was it, and how did she come to have such a marking? However, looking closely at it Éomer discovered it was no mere mark. It was a burn. She had been branded. By whom and for what cause? Éomer found himself deeply wondering this. Were it not for the dark look it bore, he would have thought little of the marking, and by how she had spoken strongly of her hate for the foul servants of Sauron, Éomer knew she bore neither love nor allegiance to him. The burning hatred in her eyes had said it all.  
He would not think on such thoughts now, though his silence was unknown to the Elf and his sister as they happily spoke to each other. Éomer had to smile at that. Long it had been since Éowyn had had a friend, burdened with many duties in the Golden Hall as a lady of the Mark, a life often lonely. He was glad to see her to make a friend in Duvaineth, who just as well appeared to enjoy her company as much as Éowyn did.

The night wore on. Éowyn soon took her leave, having felt weariness settling upon her like falling leaves, for the week had been heavy with toils and her concern for Duvaineth great, and she received little rest, but now would rest easier knowing she was mending well. Soon after it was Théoden's turn to rise and excuse himself now that the hour was late and his guest had been well fed, however sleep not being his cause of need to leave. Before taking his leave, Théoden bid the Elf a fair night and to remain in the Riddermark for however long she may need to before she was recovered to depart for her journey; and it was then Duvaineth understood the meaning of Gandalf's riddle.

With a small smile, Duvaineth complied. "Certainly, my lord. I would not yet leave still bearing a wound that is but only ten days old."

Théoden was pleased to hear this. "Very good. I will leave you to continue in dining, if you still hunger or desire more to drink." He then looked to his nephew at his right, and simply gave a firm, short nod as he patted his shoulder as a silent farewell. Éomer returned the gesture, gripping his upper arm and then letting him depart. The king did not leave immediately. He sought a Man in the same room, who had seemed to have...simply appeared. Duvaineth could not remember seeing him, but that was no complaint. His very appearance made her feel ill; he was short and had dark hair and blue, snake-like eyes. He spoke quietly, and spared a smile to Théoden that was very sinister looking. It brought a shadow upon Duvaineth's heart, and it was then she realized she had not felt such troubling feelings for some time now.

"That is Grima Wormtongue." Éomer had moved sometime after his uncle left, and now sat reclined back in a chair next to her, slowly drinking his goblet of wine as he quietly mused. "He is the king's Chief Advisor. Very close in mine uncle's counsel he is. I daresay I take no comfort in it."

"I understand why, for he has a foul look upon him," Duvaineth responded, quietly.

"That is only but a small number as to what he possesses."

Duvaineth's eyes narrowed at his words. She turned to him. "How do you mean?"

Éomer paused – nay, he hesitated. He lifted his eyes to where his uncle still stood with Grima, and waited until both disappeared from the room to speak, although little did he desire for him to leave with that Man. "There is something about Grima Wormtongue that stills my very blood," Éomer began. "He possesses power. He holds not the power you may think. His words are as poison to your ears, yet wisely does he speak to Théoden King; but within those words is dark intent. By no means does he intend to help mine uncle to protect the Mark. I know not truly who or what he serves, whether for the good or for the ill, but he cares little for our lands.

"He lusts for my sister," Éomer said bitterly. "He has given me more than one cause to take a great dislike for him."

It was not appealing. Duvaineth wondered how comforted Éowyn felt under the king's roof with greedy eyes upon her. Mayhap not very well. In the midst of her musing Duvaineth must have made a face, for Éomer's laughter broke her from her reverie, and she looked at him with silent confusion. "Forgive me, Mistress Duvaineth," he said once his laughter had ceased. Even now he was continuing to struggle with his chuckles. "I should not have laughed. You had a vile look on your face as if you were about to retch."

But Duvaineth smiled. "I was feeling disgusted."

"Is that how all Elves look when they are disgusted?"

"Only when a terse, vile-looking Man lusts for a young woman."

Éomer roared with laughter, returning his goblet on the table. "Do the Elves not then lust?"

"It is quite different and requires an explanation of length," Duvaineth answered with a smile, "We love and do not lust. Our hearts remain to one and only one, and with that one we love forever even beyond death. Lust, to us, is an evil doing akin to that of murderous intent, and it is never performed. Yet we do not lack in passion, nor does our beauty, and to be desired by one is certainly a flattery more than it is to be lusted after by a hunched Man. However, Grima Wormtongue is in close counsel with the king. I am a mere guest. It is not wise to speak ill of the king or of those in his home, or those close to him. My opinion, whether good or ill, matters not."

She spoke wisely, her words good quality of which would not be doubted. Éomer thought not of her as evil as his men so readily had. Though her mark was questionable, he so far had not been given cause to distrust her; and his sister had spent more time with her than either he or his uncle had. She was a wise woman, young but sharp. Éowyn would have spoken of any mistrust she held for the Elf-maiden. As far as Éomer was concerned, Mistress Duvaineth intended no harm. Reclining back in his chair, his lips threatening to twitch into a smile he was not able to withhold at her words, Éomer again took a sip from his goblet and spoke. "This may very well be true, but no good can be spoken of Grima. Trust my word; my sister asked me to choose my words carefully when speaking of him, and I try despite the difficulty that comes hither from my other desires, but I do so for not my sake but hers. But seldom successful is it, nor does it stay my true opinion of him in my thoughts, of which I dare not utter before anyone."

"Your sister is wise. I understand your passion. You hold a love for the Mark. You wish it to be free from harm, and her king within that safety. I too would like to see that, but to all of Middle-earth and the homes of my kin that have been so darkly painted by this shadow."

"Then you and I fight for the very same cause. For our homes," Éomer said, and raised his goblet to her with a smile before taking a large sip.

The night grew on, and Éomer and Duvaineth remained in each other's companies. They spoke of many things, among which the growing darkness and forces of Mordor were heavily discussed. Duvaineth discovered the Horse-lord was well learnt on many things, and was thoroughly impressed by his knowledge of different lore and customs of Men, though he knew very little of her kin, an area he was very sore in he admitted; for hardly any good was spoken of the Elves, and little was it desired to learn furthermore of them – a topic Duvaineth promised him she would gladly tell him of during her stay, and in return he would educate her of his people.

Alas, soon the night was late and Duvaineth's energy was spent as a heavy wave of weariness was settling upon her. It was noticeable, and Éomer wished her not to be exhausted. She was still yet recovering from her hurts; sleep was a great necessity. "You should rest now, Mistress Duvaineth. You are not yet completely healed of your wound, and doubt I do not this evening alone has been a strain to you." His words were true. Duvaineth abided by his words, and bidding Éomer a goodnight, she rose from her seat; though Éomer insisted she not walk alone. A kind Man by the name of Gamling came forward and escorted her to her given bedchambers, a gesture that surprised Duvaineth, but she was grateful for it all the same. Sleep came easily to her that night, though strange she thought it. The past three nights had been restless for her, yet found sleep she did and dreamless they were. Duvaineth welcomed it despite the oddity, though she could not help but wonder. Her nights had indeed been dreamless, save for one or two, but haunting they were not, and she did not realize this until now. It was as if she were under some spell. But she welcomed it, for little in her years had sleep come to her.

~~~~~~~~

"Your concern for my welfare is greatly appreciated, my lord. Yet I feel that is not part of your cause to have sought an audience with me, and asked me to join you for a walk."

"No, and although I wondered how you have been faring since last night when you dined with the king, it is not the reason of my cause, I am afraid." Éomer smiled wryly, an emotion he wore far too often. "There is a matter that concerns me. I am sure you know of what I speak, for I spoke heavily of it. Your eyes spoke of great interest in it more than your tongue allowed."

Duvaineth nodded slowly in understanding as she walked at his side. It was morning. The Sun was uncovered with only a few patches of clouds scattered in the blue sky. A gentle breeze came with the delightful weather. Duvaineth did not realize how much she had missed the fresh air until she felt the soft caress of the wind. "It concerns Grima Wormtongue, then."

"Indeed it does."

"And you trust me to confide in?"

"You speak very little, but wisely you do. I believe you see more to Grima than you show. The Men of the Mark may be wary and think ill of you, but I say you are not evil or possess dark magic or are a sorceress, however amusing the tales may be to mine ears." Éomer chuckled as he recalled the many nights on the fields of the Riddermark or a night in the tavern enjoying respite from his duties as he sat among his men, and listened to the stories about the Elves. Their "queen" within the forests was often spoken of, but not in a manner that would bring flattery. He thought it silly, every last tale he heard, and though he often wondered, he never made such cold, hard assumptions of a kindred he knew naught of. "If you were a servant of Sauron then you would have seen your baneful deed fulfilled come the moment you gained our trust, whatever your duty may be, or you would have extended not the gratitude and kindness to us that you have. Not even a servant of Sauron would be able to do so."

"Your words are true," Duvaineth said. "I would have killed the guards by now and had gone to do the same to your king were I a servant of Darkness. But such is an attempt of folly, and not very wise. I doubt not your uncle has many to protect him." Her eyes then grew dark. "That is not to say Grima Wormtongue does not have his own advantage. There may yet be some cloaked in the shadows listening to words," Duvaineth said, her voice light and soft as if it were what she feared, but little of it was shown in her eyes.

"I assure you, my lady, naught will be done if that be so." Éomer, too, spoke quietly. Whether he agreed to her words or not, or if he knew them to be true for surely she did, Duvaineth did not know. But he was kind with his words. "I am the king's nephew, the only living heir to rule the Riddermark. Grima would not dare speak ill against me or Éowyn, not over a matter of my opinion of him. My uncle knows me truly and well as if he is my father. Grima knows this rather well. He may seek to hear the words of my tongue and others but he would dare not to go before the king and speak so vilely of his family, nor any guest. However," Éomer weighed heavily, "I fear many a thing, of which I cannot utter so openly."

"It is why you asked me to walk with you." Duvaineth now understood. She smiled. "Tell me, then, if you wish, for I am rather curious about Grima Wormtongue."

Éomer spoke of many things to her, and all that could never be spoken only in fear there were spies among the Meduseld. Of all he spoke, he spoke of Grima. "He speaks ill. He is no fool; Grima conceals his meaning well and coats his words with a seeping dark sweetness, but there is no good from his tongue. I worry for the king. I wonder if Grima is an influence upon his mind...and how deeply." When he finished, Duvaineth contemplated heavily on his words. She knew Éomer very little, but he was a trustworthy Man, she deemed, honest and caring of his home. Duvaineth did not doubt his words. She remembered Grima from last night and how he appeared. The way he smiled at the king was not right. She knew Éomer's words to be true, and it concerned her just as it did him.

"Alas!" Éomer sighed. "I should not speak so grimly. The shadow that covers this earth is enough to bring grief unto our hearts. There are yet still times of joy, one that may be brought to you."

Duvaineth glanced up in confusion at his gesture. They had come to the stables; it did not clear her confusion but only heightened it. Éomer said nothing. He merely led her inside and down the very brief hall where they were surrounded by a great number of horses in their pens. That was when Duvaineth saw her. A wide smile broke across her features. "Gilroch!" she breathed and rushed forward, coming to the pen that her beloved horse was stationed in. Greeted with a gentle nuzzle, Duvaineth laughed happily and tenderly pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "Oh, roch melui! How I have missed you so. I am glad to see you safe."

Éomer watched not far away. He tilted his head to the side, observing the touching moment between the Elf and her horse and was astonished by it. There was a strong love for the steed in Duvaineth's heart; it showed very plainly in her eyes that which shone brightly with tenderness. He had never before beheld such love for an animal in one's eyes, not even in the eyes of his own men. "You look upon your steed as if she is your very soul," Éomer remarked in a murmur. "It is astonishing."

"We hold animals and nature very dear to our hearts," Duvaineth said as she looked up, a smile gracing her lips. "That love is endless. Though the earth is trampled and brought to ruin by ash and shadow, and a great evil, our love will never falter. Such is our love to animals." She returned her gaze back to Gilroch. Her smile widened and she stroked her mane. "Gilroch has been my friend for many years. She is my best friend."

"She is a fine steed indeed," Éomer said with a smile.

"Indeed she is," Duvaineth said softly. "And she has borne me through many dangers, faithful and true. I could never ask any more of her."

Éomer's smile did not leave him. He turned away and silently let her be. The day was young still and the Elf had been bedridden for nearly two weeks, the world veiled to her and parted from her dear companion, and he dared not keep her away from her steed any longer, nor keep her locked in her chambers. Glancing behind him one last time before he disappeared from her sight, Éomer noticed how her spirits appeared to have been lifted the moment they had stepped outside from the Golden Hall. He supposed even Elves needed fresh air every once in a while.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Théoden hosts a feast for his people, seeking to lift their spirits. However, Grima Wormtongue has different plans for their guest.

Recovering from a poisonous wound was hardly pleasant, something Duvaineth desired not to encounter again in the time to come. Yet it was not the first occasion she had suffered such a wound. If it were possible, the recovery was just as long, tedious, and painful as she last remembered it to be. Much rest was required and the consistent sipping of water and Holy Basil, though it was most largely needed after dining with Théoden King that night. It had strained her body and although she hid her discomfort rather well, come the morrow when Éowyn returned to her, Duvaineth was unable to hide it any further. It did not linger long and the moment she helped herself to Holy Basil she began to feel better, physically and in fëa. Soon, however, it was time for Duvaineth to strengthen her limbs; a strenuous task, indeed, and none too pleasing, and one where she needed the assistance of the herbed water more than she had need of it in the past weeks she had been in Rohan.

Éowyn, who had been great company and had become a good friend to her, could not conceal her concern, yet all the same, amusement grew greater than the concern at the quiet curses of Elvish Duvaineth uttered. "You must be careful in your travels, my friend. I hesitate to trust you will be so fortunate when next you receive a wound the likes you now heal from."

Despite the lethargy from her efforts, Duvaineth was amused by her words and chuckled. "Surely now I shall, though the when next I stand against a great number of Orcs and Wargs, I would like to avoid having a sword be run through me!"

"I do believe it would save you much trouble," Éowyn laughed, and soon Duvaineth was joining her.

"Indeed!"

Lord Éomer remained not a stranger. He brought good company and often sat with Duvaineth and his sister in the evening when the king was not present for supper. Often was Éomer absent from the Meduseld, dutifully abiding by the commands of his king, whether he be within or away from Edoras. Yet always he did not fail in harboring concern for Duvaineth and would come to see her upon his return, for just as his sister, he too held great concern for the Elf. Nigh a month had since then passed marking her arrival to the Riddermark, and Duvaineth was now near to full recovery. Although she felt well and had made a few appearances outside her chamber in the Golden Hall, regaining her full strength was a slow achievement.  
Yet not all wished her well, nor took joy in her presence in the Mark.

"But my lord, she is a stranger to our lands, one of a People least welcomed and little desired to be seen. A most peculiar one, she is."

"She offers no harm and has but extended kindness and gratitude to me and my household. I hardly think her wounds a mere act of deceit."

"Surely, my lord, there may be a measure of—"

Théoden came to an abrupt stop halfway on the steps leading to his throne and turned to his advisor. He bore no happiness hearing his Advisor's words. "Trust you not in my judgment, Grima?" he asked, irritation light in his tone.

He was quick to come to a cessation, closing his mouth and unknowingly cowering back. "Of course not, my lord," Grima Wormtongue stammered. "Your judgment is just and well and true, and there is no other whom I would trust as fiercely as I do you. I simply become concerned for my king when strangers to our lands walk in his home."

"Then trust in my word. I ask not much from you of that," Théoden said. "Mistress Duvaineth is a guest in the Mark and in my home, and I will not suffer it spoken that Théoden King's guests are ill-treated."

"Yes, my lord," Grima answered, quickly. "Certainly, she will be treated properly and respectfully, of course, my lord."

"Good, then." Théoden turned away from him again as he returned to his throne. "Ensure it is done."

Standing before the king Grima smiled and accepted his command. When he turned his back to his liege and left his presence, however, a deep sneer shadowed his features. He liked the Elf no greater than he did the king's nephew. There was something ill about her. She was strange, one he had not quite seen before. Quiet; dark eyes that refused admittance to emotions, and her words wise, but darkly and mysteriously so. She was a threat indeed. Surely she hid something. Mayhap he could quicken her departure from the Mark.

Grima smiled slyly. Yes. And he knew just how…

Now left to his peace, Théoden King sighed deeply in relief. He reclined back in his throne and relaxed his tense muscles. The attendances to matters of concern had been many as of late, and the time allotted to breathe less. Théoden eagerly accepted the respite that had been given to him with gladness, for seldom was his time. The heavy concerns of his realm weighed on him like a growing shadow; time slipped past him darkly and quickly, but such was the wont of the World and he little knew for how long he could fain indulge in pleasantries of being relieved of his council. Gladly he took advantage of it.

"You have at last been rid of your irate advisor, I see. Take heart, my lord! You have time to rest from your heavy toils."

A wide smile stretched over the weary king's features. "Indeed. I am taking joy in what has been given, but you bring greater joy, even against the longest respite I may have from the troubles of my land. You have returned from battle and are unharmed. Truly, I could neither ask nor receive greater. Welcome back, my dear nephew."

Éomer smiled and paused before his uncle at the steps of the dais to bow. "Thank you, my lord," he said. "The battle was short in its days compared to the many weeks I have spent on the field of war, yet dreadfully long it still felt. I am glad to be home and to come before my king."

"How fared the battle?"

"We were triumphant over the Orcs and slew the rest after their cowardly retreat. Alas, our victory was not achieved without a cost. Several men fell, but bravely and well they fought. We gave them a proper burial."

"Alas for the fallen," Théoden sighed. "Death weaves its snare so thickly in times of war. Men leave their loved ones, their promise of return but a bittersweet taste in the cold caress of the wind. They fought as true Men of the Mark, with honor and for their land and people. Could a king ask for more than what is so graciously given to him? I say not."

"No, indeed. Nor could I ever ask for a greater display of valor to draw swords with," Éomer agreed. "They will be remembered for their fealty henceforth, and all those who fall in service to the War, for they are my brothers and dearly will I miss them."  
Théoden said nothing. He rose in silence from his throne and turned to the wall, but naught came from his lips. A fire burned within his heart. A bright flame that burned fiercer and brighter come every new beat of his heart. He felt saddened. Angered. Yet also compassionate and loving – a vault of emotions that had long sat in quiet solitude as war threatened his lands. War and death were too frequently set against him, ruin wrought in their wake, driving his people into grief and despair, and sitting so heavily upon his mind and heart; never staying their force nor leaving him even if only for a brief respite. But no longer. He could do little to take away the sorrow that had beset his people, but he could ease it; he could offer comfort that was but a faint memory, and though it would only be short-lived for mayhap an evening or two, joy as well.

"Let us remember them tonight, then, and go onward. Let us honor them and celebrate our victory, and drink to what hope remains in the heart of the Mark." Théoden turned around and faced his nephew, offering a smile. "Tonight, all who dwell in Edoras will come to feast and quench their hearts' desire, and may they hear songs that will uplift their spirits; and may my words give them a measure of hope, even if it is small. Let it be, then, if so; but they will have hope. And let it be tonight that they will know the love their king bears for them, and feel neither lost nor forgotten."

"That is just, my lord," Éomer replied, smiling. "Your people will be grateful for such great hospitality from their king. I will send word to the Master of Ceremonies so preparations might be made."

Ere Éomer could turn away and carry out his king's words, he was distracted from his orders when his uncle spoke again. "And send word to Lady Éowyn, and see that Mistress Duvaineth knows she is welcome to come, if she feels well. I would loathe for our guest to be denied the opportunity to indulge in the feast. After suffering a grievous wound I daresay she well deserves it."

"It shall be done. I will see to it at once," Éomer promised him. He then paused for a brief moment as his memory was rekindled of Duvaineth, of their meeting and farewell ere Éomer left for battle against the Orcs. He wondered how her recovery fared since he last saw her. "How is the Mistress Duvaineth faring? It has been some time since I last saw her; not since my departure, I do not think. And that was nigh seven weeks ago."

"Ah!" Théoden said with a smile. "Mistress Duvaineth is doing well – much better, I should rather say. She has begun the last toils of her recovery to regain strength in her muscles and walking. She tires quickly from it but has improved greatly each session. Éowyn suspects she will soon be on her feet without difficulty."

"That is well news!" Éomer said delightfully. "I am glad to hear this. Let us hope her recovery henceforth will be swift and she may feel well on her feet once more. But now I take my leave to allow you your peace. I will carry out your order for this coming evening, and Mistress Duvaineth shall receive a warm invitation to the feast."

With that, Éomer bowed deeply and departed. But when he came to the entrance of the hall an ill feeling fell upon him, stopping him in his tracks. He knew the feeling well – mayhap too well. Éomer turned, and hiding behind a pillar in the hall of the king was Grima, his face twisted in a sly smile. Éomer swore he heard a snicker come from his mouth. Undoubtedly he had been spying on the king and his meeting with his nephew. It angered Éomer. He clenched his jaw and strode forward. His knowledge of Grima's presence had been unnoticed – until now, as he made no attempt to conceal his footsteps. Grima raised his head and a look of fear entered his eyes as he quickly backed away from him, but it did little and he found his back pressed harshly against the pillar with his shirt fisted tightly in the Third Marshall's grasp.

"Pinning your ears to the king's quiet discourse, are we?" Éomer spoke dryly, a tinge of bitter sarcasm on his tongue. "I thought you had more dignity, Wormtongue."

Grima glowered at him. "I think only of the king's wellbeing, much unlike one who claims to serve Théoden King so, speaking of war and death upon his beloved land."

"He sent me forth with the duty to defend our lands, and readily and gladly did I do the will of the king. I doubt you would have placed your very life before the Riddermark to save her from an onslaught, least of all to serve your king."

"You speak terrible lies!" Grima exclaimed. "I would do anything my king would ask of me. But you see, Lord Éomer, I am but a lowly servant to my lord; a mere advisor to proffer counsel. I am no warrior. The king knows this. Surely you are aware of this yourself?"

"You are capable of many things, Grima. Surprised I would not be if it is discovered you are familiar with a blade," Éomer answered dryly.

"It would be for the king's safety, if that be so, for verily can those who dwell in his House not be easily trusted. Even those close to him may wish harm to him."

His words were dark, wrought from an ill tongue. It tempered not Éomer's anger. He tightened his grip on Grima, speaking through gritted teeth. "Speak with care when utter you such accusations. While there may be some who speak with fairness, there are others who are not as well veiled. None who are dearly close to the king would dare harm him."

"Know you this with certainty?" Grima bore that sickly smile of his. "Anyone can mask themselves, whether poorly or excellently, and may think the darkest thoughts. None would know. Ere our migration here, many a time was brother against brother, their minds and hearts full of greed and envy and ambition to rule…and even nephew against uncle."

"Snake! Speak not to me with your black tongue," Éomer hissed. Out of anger he again pushed him back against the pillar, letting him go. "Always has my loyalty been to Théoden King and him only. Never have I served another or showed a lack of respect or gratitude; never have I spoke against him or disobeyed his will. You know this very well, Wormtongue."

"And yet even the most faithful can fall from favor, can they not?" Grima smirked.

"And I give you an oath here and now: So long as I draw breath no harm will come to the king, nor should I ever think kindly of you or bear likeness to the very mention of your name. Those who dare harm the king shall not succeed; I will end their pursuit before it is even begins, and my sword will not be kind to them. It would be best if you remember that."

"Fret not, my lord," Grima said, mockingly. "I shall not forget your words of kindness." His eyes narrowed. "I shall not."

Éomer said nothing. He tilted his head downward, his eyes dark and glowering. Then he wordlessly turned about and briskly strode away in hard steps, his temper teetering to the edge, his anger great. Would that the words of his sister did not echo loudly in his head, Grima would no more be a bother. Alas, such actions would not be wise. Unfortunately. Now Éomer was beset with a greater concern than he had before, and wondered how truly hard Grima was trying to beset his dark tongue upon his uncle's mind. It mattered not. Théoden King's love and loyalty was to the Riddermark and his family, Éomer told himself. He would hear none of Grima's words speaking against whom the king loved, and he knew that. It would be well that he remembered it, as well.

Yet Éomer was still concerned for his uncle and the influence Grima was or may have upon the King of the Mark. He doubted not his uncle's strength and will against such evil, yet it could not banish the fear for his uncle's wellbeing. Perhaps Théoden King's son had his own opinion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Need you assistance, Mistress Duvaineth?"

"You are kind, my lady. I am well. Thank you."

"You have sat like such for some time now."

"I am contemplating."

"Of?"

"How to move myself from my bedding."

Éowyn laughed softly. "Come. Let me help you." She went over to the struggling Elf and gently took her arms and slowly helped her to her feet. Although the movement was slow and mindful of the wound Duvaineth still bore, it still yet inflicted a sharp pain throughout her body, to which she winced at. Despite this, Duvaineth smiled.

"Thank you," she said to her. "I now feel little pain, but movement is still yet strenuous. I fear I am not quite fully healed yet."

"No, but you have healed remarkably well in the time you have been here," Éowyn said. "I believe it shall not be long now before you are well recovered and on your feet without difficulty."

"Indeed!" Éomer smiled from where he stood near the doorway. "You look well, much better than when I last saw you upon my departure."

Éowyn gasped. "Éomer!" she cried. "You have returned!" Before her brother had the chance to open his mouth, she sprinted forward in quick steps and threw her arms gleefully around him. Éomer was quick to catch his sister in his arms and hold her close, gladly accepting her embrace and chuckling softly. From where Duvaineth stood she watched the touching moment unfold, a slight smile gracing her lips. Such love and adoration that a sister held for her brother, and he her. Such loyalty. It was not a sight she often gazed upon. But it was not often that her feet treaded where such was visible to her eyes. And although the sight was touching to watch and filled her with a strange sense of happiness she could not describe, sorrow also filled her heart; sorrow and dread as a well-branded memory stung her mind.

"You disobeyed my command I entrusted you with, child."

"I regret it not, nor shall forgiveness be uttered from my lips."

"Then you shall suffer."

It was Éomer's voice that broke her from her dark reverie. "I have, and unharmed as I promised you," the Rohír said to his sister with a smile as they parted. His eyes then lifted to the silent Elf and smiled again. "And I have come with an announcement from the king that he wishes to be delivered to our guest."

"Indeed?" Duvaineth inquired curiously. "I will gladly hear the words of Théoden King, if he so wishes for me to personally receive them."

"And I will gladly relay the message," Éomer replied. "Tonight Théoden King wishes to provide a feast here in his home and welcome all in Edoras to come, to eat and drink and sing to their heart's content. He wishes to give hope to his people who have for so long sat underneath a dark shadow. He wishes you to come as well, Mistress Duvaineth, to come and unweigh with his people, for long and heavy you have burdened your wound, and verily you deserve these pleasantries as he offers his people."

"That is most kind and gracious of him, of which he has extended nothing but such to me all through my stay in Edoras, for which I am truly thankful. I accept his invitation and will certainly extend my most heartfelt gratitude to him this evening."   
Duvaineth smiled. "Thank you, Lord Éomer. It is an honor."

"Your words will be taken to heart and deeply appreciated, yet Théoden King asks not of it," Éomer said. "He seeks only the comfort of those whom he shelters, and seeks not praise or recognition."

"And yet he so rightly deserves it," Duvaineth said softly. "Yet it is very admirable in a king all the same, indeed, to which gives me all the more cause to extend my gratitude to him."

"And he will be gladdened to hear such," Éomer said with a smile. Admittedly, he was surprised by her words, but pleasantly so. He could not remember a time ere he was forced to pause at one and simply contemplate their words. She spoke of kindness and gratitude, and…grace. Such has not been given so freely and so graciously to the king in the manner that was given only a moment ago in some time. Were the Elves truly so thankful? Or was Duvaineth a meager exception?

"It will be an honor to have you join us tonight, Mistress Duvaineth," he continued. "I hope you will enjoy this night as mine uncle hopes his people will take delight in it."

"Undoubtedly I shall, Lord Éomer," Duvaineth assured. "Undoubtedly I shall."

The Golden Hall was quite busy for the remainder of the day. All of Edoras had been invited to come and feast in the King's Hall, and there was much to do with so little time. Cooks and servants rushed to prepare meals and the Hall for the coming evening. Anyone who drew a single breath was put to work with preparations; even Éomer himself was heavily occupied with the affairs, though little experienced he was in the area, he would admit. He helped how he could, however; even if it was not much. He was a Man, a Third Marshall and commander on the fields on war. Partaking in affairs concerning an event was not his strongest sector, nor did he desire it to be. Battle was his expertise, and poorly did he feel in his uncle's home preparing his hall for a feast. Yet it did not all go to waste, for Théoden found it quite entertaining, and after some time Éomer was able to find humor in it himself.

Aside from the hustle and bustle in the halls of the king, Éowyn too was busy with her own preparations for herself and Duvaineth. A great amount of her time was spent in seeking proper clothing for her friend to wear. Having arrived in the King's Hall in the grim state she had, Duvaineth had very little to wear, and none of it was appropriate before a king, least of all presenting herself to a feast of which he had so graciously planned for his people. Duvaineth hardly thought it proper or kind of her, and so Éowyn spent some time sorting through dresses, a time spent Duvaineth wished she not waste. The woman minded not. Éowyn was more than happy to help her new friend, and Duvaineth being a guest in her uncle's home, she would not allow the Elf to be dressed and presented so poorly. "A guest in my lord's home is an honored guest, no matter who they are," Éowyn told her. "They will not be wrongfully treated or ill equipped. That is his command, and so it shall always be in the hall of the king."

"Even so." Duvaineth watched the woman as she sorted through a variety of Rohirric dresses. "I ask that you do not trouble yourself so on my account. I will take gladness in what is given to me. The dresses that lay before you are indeed beautiful and fitted well for the eyes of a king." She briefly paused and chuckled as she again spoke, "Surely the attire I will be given will suit me far better than what I have now. You need not worry."

Éowyn let out a soft laugh and turned to her. A light shone in her eyes, a light Duvaineth remembered Éomer describing to her that had not been seen for many months. "Indeed. However, despite your concern, I mind it not at all. But it is important as well. You are a guest here under my care, and as a friend, also. It would be my absolute pleasure to ensure you are dressed well for this evening at the very least. It has been some time since I last had the company of a female. I assure you, Duvaineth, it is truly not a bother."

Her smile and enthusiasm was contagious. Duvaineth could not contain her own smile. She nodded. "Very well, Éowyn. If you so insist, then I shall not persist otherwise!"

"Wonderful! Now, then. Try this." Éowyn brought over a dress and carefully laid it on the bed. "I do not know if it will fit. You have a small frame and it may be too big on you, but you may certainly try."

Duvaineth tilted her head to the side as her eyes scanned the dress lying before her. She reached out her hand and gingerly touched the sleeve, and allowed the soft fabric to slip through her fingers. It was a simple dress, dyed in a light shade of blue and woven with soft velvet and silk. The sleeves were white and long and wide; golden embroidery decorated the stoop collar. It hardly seemed as large as Éowyn feared it to be. Granted, it was nothing like the dresses she often wore in Imladris; elegant dresses for the Elf-maidens. To the Rohirrim, however, it was indeed a dress of elegance and grace just as the clothing the Elf-maidens wore was of the same virtues. It was far simpler than Duvaineth was used to, and she very much liked it. "I believe, Éowyn, this shall do very nicely."

Evening quickly arrived. The day had been filled with much activity in the Golden Hall, and many preparations had been made and successfully completed by the time the Sun was beginning to set. It had been a long and difficult and strenuous day; a great amount of food had been cooked to feed well over a thousand mouths continuously; tables and chairs were brought out and set up; and several bards had arrived to the king's home and made their own preparations to entertain the guests. The servants and cooks were spent of their energy, but well indeed did they perform their duties and proudly presented their work to their lord. All was prepared, and soon the time came for the feast. As hoped, many came, yet the forlorn shadow casted on their faces could not be hidden. Men and women – even children. How greatly did it shatter Théoden's heart. And then he remembered.

This night was for them. The feast was the very reason he offered it freely to his people. They were his reason. Saddened and oppressed, a dark shadow hanging above their heads as the war raged ever on, forbidding a time of joy. But not this day. Nay, it shall not be tonight. Tonight, it shall be different. His people shall not linger in despair.

Duvaineth was only lightly surprised when she entered the great hall. She had heard many a times of the love and loyalty Théoden King held for his people, and in return was beloved by them; and verily she expected his people to eagerly accept his invitation to dine in his halls. However, she had failed to realize the numbers as well. Indeed the tales had been true. Éowyn, who stood at her side, then gestured for her to follow. "Come," she beckoned. "Undoubtedly mine uncle would like to see you ere the feast begins."

"Of course." Duvaineth nodded and followed the woman through the thick crowd.

They came before the throne of the king; there Théoden King stood upon the steps of the dais, and next to him in heavy discussion was Éomer. It was not until Éowyn and Duvaineth approached that they noticed their presence. A wide smile stretched across Théoden's lips. "Ah, my beautiful niece. I was beginning to wonder where you were. And look! We have our guest before us tonight! You look well, Mistress Duvaineth."

"Thank you, my lord. I feel well, as well. I must thank you for the endless kindness you have extended unto me. I am honored to be here."

"And I am honored to have you here."

"Indeed!" came a voice behind her. But it was not a voice that brought her joy, and instead sent a cold shiver down her spine. Duvaineth turned and standing in front of her was Grima Wormtongue. "Welcome, Mistress Duvaineth. I am…pleased to see you are faring well."

Duvaineth did not miss how Éowyn seemed to have shrunk back, nor did she ignore how closer Éomer now seemed. She forced a smile. "Thank you, my lord. Forgive me, however, I do not believe we have met." It had been pleasant until tonight.

"You may call me Grima Wormtongue," the Man answered her. "I am the advisor to the king, close in his counsel, and I see to his affairs and wellbeing." His eyes narrowed slightly at her. Dark was his gaze, but his emotions were hidden well.

Quite so," Duvaineth agreed. "Such a position is very honorable and admirable, but only very few may carry their duty well. It can be tiring, I do not doubt."

"Yet rewarding as well." Grima smiled. It was menacing and spoke of ill boding, just as the night when she first caught a glimpse of him in the presence of the king. His words spoke even more darkly than his smile. He spoke not the true meaning of his words. It comforted her not.

"I am certain it is."

"Tell me, Mistress Duvaineth, for I am rather curious and have not had the pleasure of your company. How came you to pass through the Riddermark?"

"A wound, Master Grima."

"That was your cause?"

"In essence," Duvaineth responded. "All through my journey I traveled south and came to Enedwaith nigh a week after. I intended not to pass through the Riddermark nor did I hold little desire to, truthfully I will say to you. My intention was to continue northward and leave Enedwaith. Alas, fate was not with me that day as I was beset against a number of Orc-riders and their beasts, and was forced to flee into the Riddermark."

"An unfortunate defeat followed you thereafter as well. Grim the memory must be for you, I am sure. Yet you were desirous still to avoid our lands. Why so? Does this fair realm trouble you so deeply?"

Duvaineth now understood. "Trouble me? Nay. Our People are strangers to each other, are they not? The Men of your lands would have had no desire to lay their eyes upon an Elf walking in their land they so dearly love. They think my kin unkind just as mine thinks yours strange, and either would seldom venture to share discourse. I would not have had traveled into the Riddermark unless no other choice was before me. And I speak with no disrespect, but truthfully.

He had lost his own battle. Grima forced a smile. "Of course, Mistress Duvaineth. We are wary of strangers going to and fro so suddenly in our lands. Times are dark. Ever had we the need to be watchful, as I doubt not your own kin do. You make me wonder, however—"

"You wonder quite frequently as of late, Grima," Éomer remarked, interrupting him. He raised an eyebrow.

"I am but a curious Man, Lord Éomer. You know this well to be true."

"Indeed, I do," Éomer murmured, ignoring the look his sister shot him.

"Take not my words to heart, though truly I am a Man of curiosity," Grima said to the Elf. "You are one of few words."

Duvaineth tilted her head to the side. "I do not understand."

"It is simple, is it not, Mistress Duvaineth? Several weeks heretofore I recall you indulging in the comfort of the king's table. Verily you had little to say, save a lengthy tale. Such an anomaly it was for the lack of words you speak. Yet I wonder and am disquieted for our eminent king. You act is if you hide something."

His voice, whereas ere had been quiet admist his conversation with the Elf, was suddenly louder, though it could not quite bellow above the loud chatter in that echoed in the Hall. However, it was loud enough to draw attention of those nearby and within earshot. Many, but not all, eyes turned and were upon Duvaineth now. Curious eyes; forlorn…wariness. Duvaineth did not respond, however, and Grima took his chance to pounce her. "Has your tongue now been rendered silent in full or do you indeed bring ill tidings to our weary king who is burdened already with many harrowing affairs?"

"Stay your tongue!" Éomer snarled. Would that he was not in the presence of so many.

"Nay, my lord," Duvaineth spoke softly. "I take no offense. You worry much over very little things, Grima Wormtongue," she then said, and suddenly her voice was deep very much alike the night when she dined with Théoden and his family. "I am no more than a mere guest in your king's home, and I pray to have done so with all humility, and I seek naught but to heal from my wound and extend my gratitude unto Théoden King for all he has done for me when easily he could have done naught. I am one of very few words, yes; it is true, but I assure you I bear no ill tidings to your king or to his people, and would dare not allow the mere thought to cross my mind." Duvaineth paused and took a deep breath, and smiled as she spoke her last words to the unsettling Man that would end his game. "My kin are not so ill-mannered as to treat their host so unfaithfully. And I shall not begin to bear such manners. But your concern for your king is most admirable."

If Grima did not intend to show how disappointed he was in his affair, then he failed utterly, for his face fell into a deep frown and his eyes filled with a great shadow of anger. Before he could open his mouth to retaliate, Duvaineth turned her back to him and he slipped away into the crowds, the wobbling embarrassed Man whom he was, and she smiled at Théoden who stood before her. "If it is well with you, my lord," she said, "I would very much like to enjoy this gracious feast you have offered to us."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkness falls over Duvaineth as the nightmares return. Meanwhile, the meaning of Gandalf's riddle comes to light.

Silence had long filled the room. All whom had come to the Golden Hall were now gathered, awaiting the words of their king. Grima Wormtongue had long left their presence. Where he may have stumbled to was unknown, but it was of little concern to Duvaineth; the uneasiness that had shadowed her was now gone and this evening she would make every effort to enjoy the gracious givings of Rohan's king. From where Duvaineth stood, she watched as Éowyn went forth to Théoden on the dais, a golden goblet in hand. With Théoden stood two Men on either side of him, one of whom was Éomer and the other was a Man Duvaineth had not yet seen. Much akin to Éomer, he was tall and his stature broad. Both Men wore elaborate and fine attire decorated with gold embroidery, though the unknown Man wore a finer tunic than Éomer and that was greatly similar to Théoden's own.

His heir, perchance? Duvaineth wondered.

Théoden accepted the goblet from his niece with a benevolent smile. She joined her brother's side on the steps and Théoden then turned to the crowd. His smile still firmly planted on his lips, he uplifted the goblet before the people and spoke in a loud but gentle voice, "Tonight, we honor those who so bravely fell protecting our lands, for rightly do their valor and strength and memorably exceeding virtue deserve such recognition. I can offer you no greater words of comfort than I can offer myself, but this I shall say unto you: There is always hope. When the day is dark and all lights seem all but spent, there is hope. When the thick gale of shadow and cold despair linger above us, there is hope. We shall not dwell in sadness that so glibly smothers our hearts. Your king loves you and tonight, he bestows that love, care, and compassion unto your hearts. Eat. Drink. Find joy in dance and song, and find your peace. For, truly, I pray your hearts will know it this night."

The forlorn silence the Golden Hall had erstwhile lingered with was somewhat allayed by the king's words. He lifted his goblet, toasting to the dead, and blessed the coming feast. Those who held a goblet in their hand raised them in the air and chorused a loud "Hail!" before drinking from their cups. Among them, Duvaineth was quiet but failed not to honor the fallen by raising her own goblet. As she brought it to her lips and tasted the sweet wine, her eyes briefly closed and she murmured a silent prayer to the dead. When she opened her eyes and lowered her cup, Duvaineth discovered she was nearly alone; most of the Rohirrim had left to accept their king's generous offer to dine, leaving the Elf standing a pace or two away from the dais. Théoden remained there, accompanied by his niece and that Man, along with a small number of his council. But Éomer was no longer there and she wondered where he had gone off to. The thought was brief, however, for she soon heard light footsteps approaching from her left and she needed not to look to know who it was.

"I must commend you, Mistress Duvaineth," spoke the person, his voice quiet. Light amusement danced his tone.

Duvaineth forewent replying for a moment. She merely smiled, and judging by the Man's light chuckle, she gathered he had noticed it. "You are kind, my lord, but may I inquire why so?"

"An unpleasant encounter is no more a pleasantry than seeing a mere glimpse of him. His dark tongue would dare test anyone's will, and verily does he endeavor to set others against you. Even your own mind."

"Grima Wormtongue is a fine adder. He seeks to shadow hearts and bend the thoughts of the innocent with his tongue," Duvaineth replied. "You speak truly. I doubt not your words, for mine eyes alone saw such, nor did I miss his eagerness to question mine intentions before your king in his halls."

"Grima probes all who come before the king, even me and the king's own son, but very few does he approach with his poisonous tongue. And even fewer possess the will to stand against his black words, though they stand innocent," Éomer said solemnly. "My apologies that you suffered so while a guest in mine uncle's home."

"Pray spare yourself such compunction, Lord Éomer, though your concern is kind. Grima's attempts proved to be a wiseacre's folly at the very beginning. He believes me to possess some measure of dark intent within my heart. But I assure you, my lord, that I have no such desire in my heart to commit ill deeds upon your king or his realm. Doings of such are unheard of and unnatural for my people to do. It is simply not in the nature of Elves to stir such hate or to bear such evil."

"You have given us no cause to believe otherwise. Greatly do I doubt the ill that is spoken against you, for many a time I have seen naught but grace and kindness extended to my home, and to our king. I do not think you to be evil as some may believe you and your people to be."

Duvaineth smiled slightly. It was small but there, having long been hidden since her encounter with Wormtongue. "I may be accounted as young by the wont of my kin, but never have I heard any tale told nor spun of an Elf to be evil. Nor has one ever been corrupted by words of the Shadow, whether wrought by the tongues of beings Mortal or Immortal. We are not faultless, nor are we without shame and the guilt of spilling innocent blood in the bygone Ages of this World, but never has any servant of Darkness nor Sauron himself bent Elves into dark creatures to do his bidding, at least none that could still walk free from such a damnable deed. And that, my lord, is a thing I declare my kin may justly pride themselves in."

"Indeed?" Éomer inquired curiously. "Alas for such false rumors, then. Little is spoken of your people. They are but mere tales recited and embellished around campfires well into the night, but they are still rather unfavorably relayed. Yet such stories have long been in existence." His eyes glowed with a speckle of sadness. The Elf next to him had been nothing but kind and gracious to his king and a true friend to his lonely and oppressed sister. But the rumors spoken of the Elves were more forged than true, he suspected; that they were capable of a great and dark power, unkind and cold and uncaring. Éomer had yet to see anything that evidenced such tales, yet there was little of the warm hospitality Duvaineth has received from the king beyond his uncle's great halls. Instead, cold gazes and dark murmurs greeted her wherever she walked.

But Duvaineth shook her head. "Nay. Do not be dismayed, for times have indeed grown dark. My people are as wary of their road and those who tread it, and those who wander in their lands just as your own people are wary of mine. I fault them not for it." She paused to turn her head slightly. Her eyes glanced around, lastly falling upon Théoden, who proudly watched his people with obvious joy. "Understandable it is for one to be concerned for the wellbeing of their king, even to be wary of whosoever comes forth before him. This I shall say, however...." Duvaineth returned her gaze to Éomer and her eyes, unlike before, held no light within them. There was a dark shadow in them; a forlorn look and one that Éomer took not lightly. "It is no official concern or duty of a mere advisor to see to the king's safety, nor to be ever so watchful of who may come near him. Heed my words, Lord Éomer. Grima Wormtongue intends ill fortune upon your uncle and his lands, and beneath his shrew smile is a very evil intent. Be ever so cautious but mindful of your words as well. If he indeed has malevolent intent as you yourself believe, then he may be capable of unkind influences. Those who love you may then come to despise you."

Her words were pressing. Éomer took a moment to contemplate them. Though grim as they were, there was also truth in them. "Do you believe the king will yield to his words?"

Duvaineth hesitated. An answer was not needed, for Éomer already knew. "My lord—"

"I beseech you, Mistress Duvaineth."

Silence fell between them, but it was brief. "I doubt not the strength of Théoden King, but one can only withstand the might of lethal words such as the likes of Grima's tongue for so long."

Éomer nodded slightly. It was unbeknown to him, but his hand crept to the hilt of his blade tucked in its scabbard and gripped it tightly. He said nothing and for a long while he merely stood quietly as he watched the feast. To say he was at ease would be quite untrue. His shoulders were stiff, a plain indication of the tension lining his frame. His eyes that had erstwhile looked upon her with a gentle and kind gaze were now hardened, and he seemed to be lost in deep thought. But just as the tension was there, it was then gone, and at length, he turned to Duvaineth and smiled, giving her a bow. "Thank you for your company, Mistress Duvaineth, and your discourse as well. Let us not dwell on such ill tidings tonight. You have suffered an unfriendly wound for now a great while. Undesirable tidings have long been upon your shoulders, and in a plentiful amount I do not doubt. Let us do as mine uncle bid his people, for verily, we too deserve it."

"I believe that, Lord Éomer," Duvaineth intoned with a smile, "is a fine suggestion."

The night waned with chatter and laughter, and there was much singing and dancing, but Duvaineth could not find her own delight. She watched from afar, settled against a pillar. Her lips threatened to twitch into a smile from time to time when she briefly beheld heartwarming moments between a family, or a Man and his beloved, for greatly did it remind her of her own home. However, the happiness she felt did not last and she was soon again contemplating unwelcomed thoughts, accompanied by a bitter memory when she stared into the dark and ill-contented eyes of Grima Wormtongue. But quickly did Duvaineth realize her thoughts were once more working to take hold of her like a shadow. She shook her head, hoping to dispatch them. "Such thoughts should not fall upon me tonight," she murmured.

Yet, no matter her efforts, they refused to leave. A heavy concern remained. Grima Wormtongue was capable of great power; dark power. Would he shadow Théoden King, or would the king prevail against it? Duvaineth did not know. Her eyes left the floor that had been of odd interest and fell on Éomer, who again stood near the dais. He was not alone and was speaking to the same Man she had seen earlier at the king's side, who was introduced to her as Théodred, son of the king.

_**"Ah, Mistress Duvaineth," Théoden had said as the elleth approached him in the company of his niece. "With all gladness do I welcome you! How do you enjoy the feast?"** _

_**"I enjoy it very much so, Your Majesty," Duvaineth answered. "Truly, you spoil me with such kindness, however much it further attests to your generous hospitality, yet I cannot deny the comfort it brings me."** _

_**"That is good to hear!" Théoden smiled broadly. "Our people are quite different from each other, indeed, but I would rather believe courtesy can be established. We share a common interest. So take joy and feast, and revel in songs and tales."** _

_**"I can only agree with your words, my king. It is a fine feast. I thank you for allowing me to partake in it."** _

_**It was then Théoden remembered and he gestured to the Man with whom he had earlier been in discussion with. "Have you not met my son, Théodred?"** _

_**Duvaineth's eyes moved to the Man. She had only seen him before at the side of his father as she stood at a distance in the crowd, not having truly looked upon him previously. Now that he was closer, she was able to. He stood tall and his face was fair with long, golden hair tamed and swept over his shoulders, and he clasped his hands deferentially behind his back. He very much resembled Éomer, she saw. Duvaineth smiled. "I believe I have not had the pleasure."** _

_**Théodred returned the smile with a warm and kind one of his own. The Man in question stepped forward, his hands still behind his back, and bowed. "Good health to you, Mistress Duvaineth," he said. "I welcome you to my father's home, and I hope you will find the comfort you seek."** _

Comfort. The very thought was bitter upon her mind. Would she ever find comfort in this world? As enjoyable as it was to dine with Prince Théodred and Éowyn and to hear quite extensively of the land of Rohan and their people, and their culture that was but bare to her knowledge, hearing of interesting tales of both good and ill, and savoring the taste of the sweet wine offered to her, it was there she felt little peace or comfort. Nay, it mattered not. Each night reminded her days of walking underneath the Sun in Imladris, and sleeping underneath the dark, velvety sky, the stars bright and glimmering – Despondency, she felt each night. Ever so curiously her mind wandered, thoughts both ill and good passing, and each time as she gazed upon the starry night sky she felt a growing shadow endeavoring to overcome her. Yet, a light still shined. It was dim, but, hidden beneath the dark veils of Evil, it was there. Darkness had not yet attempted to overcome her mind as she slept, an occurrence that had not come to pass for some time now.

She had been sleeping well as of late, Duvaineth realized. She stopped, however, as the thought dwelled in her mind. Duvaineth frowned, her shoulders tensing at that. Wait. Was that good? Why would such darkness remain far from her dreams when it never had before? There was no reason for it to. Was there not? What was happening? She had not noticed it until now. Valar, did that mean something else was happening? Something more subtle? Duvaineth swallowed. At least she was becoming accustomed to that darkness. Why did it remain from her now? Valar, what was happening?

Duvaineth rubbed her forehead in frustration. Alas, no matter how great in his efforts did Théoden King tried to bring peace all to the minds and hearts to his people, it did little for his guest. Admirable his efforts were, indeed, but it could not quell her own shadow.

Duvaineth retired early. The affairs of the evening quickly caught up to her, and a sense of lethargy fell upon her she could not pull herself from. As soon as she laid her head upon her pillow, Duvaineth was taken into a deep slumber. Yet brief it was, for she was visited by darkness that she had not encountered for many weeks. She awoken with a start and it took her a short time to realize that she had sat up-right and clutched her chest, her breathing ragged. Grief had clouded her very mind and pain stung her body so sharply that she could do nothing but scream. The dream had felt real; very real, as if she were locked behind the doors of Barad-dûr all over again…

Duvaineth closed her eyes and took a moment to gather her breath, and when she opened them she beheld the deeply concerned face of Éowyn in the soft amber glow of the small number of lit candles that surrounded the room. To say her presence startled Duvaineth was an understatement, and she nearly spoke quickly and sharply, had she not seen the concern that the woman bore. She let out an exhausted breath, the relief that suddenly swept over her so overwhelming that her head spun. She held her forehead, turning away from Éowyn as she waited for the dizziness to dissipate. Valar, how could that have been a mere dream? The clutches of darkness and torment had felt so real. Blessed stars above, what was wrong with her?

"Duvaineth?" She heard Éowyn's soft, yet concerned tone in the dark. "Are you unwell, my friend?"

"No," Duvaineth was quick to answer, though evident it was in her own tone how troubled she was. "I am well. Do not worry, my lady. It was merely a dream."

A dream, her mind told her. But no dream it was; it was a memory, and for a long while Duvaineth found herself standing by the window near her bed, simply staring at the view of Edoras underneath the black velvet of the star-strewn sky as she retreated deep in thought. Thoughts that were far from pleasant, that is, and many doubts shadowed her mind. Sleep finally came only after a long duration of it evading her, though it still proved to be short-lived, for sunrise came shortly after. The day passed slowly, but Duvaineth felt slower. She spent her time in the company of Éowyn, but little good did it do to ease her mind. She wholeheartedly welcomed the auburn colors in the sky as the Sun slowly disappeared into the horizon. Yet when nightfall came, her mind refused to let her sleep. Her heart was clouded with fear from the night before, many a thought racing. Sleep would not come so easily, if at all. And so admitting defeat, Duvaineth rose from her bed and wandered the Meduseld and soon found herself outside the great hall.

The air was still. A peaceful silence had fallen upon Edoras, yet she found she could not feel it herself. It was naught but darkness and its threat to root her in place.

She could sense him, haunting as the very night, ever so tenacious to ensnare her. Her mind struggled as it writhed against the heavy shadow that lingered. Fear and doubt clouded her still, though she knew not why. Duvaineth dearly wished she could say. She searched her thoughts fervently but could not find an answer. And so heavily was she in her thoughts that she did not hear approaching footsteps, nor took notice of Éomer coming to stand at her side. He waited silently for a moment and when she still did not take notice of his presence, he chuckled to himself and spoke. "Great must be the wake of your thoughts to be so distracting that you do not notice the presence of others! Yet it is a fine night for such to be, do you not think?"

Duvaineth jumped but was only briefly startled, and the Man next to her let out a hearty laugh. She smiled. "Forgive me. You frightened me."

Éomer attempted to conceal his amusement but failed as the trembling of his lips gave away the laughter that soon erupted, along with the rather large smile that followed. "Is that so? I could not tell." He then again chuckled. "It is late. What disturbs you from slumber and keeps you so far from it?"

A troubled look shadowed her features. "Unpleasant dreams."

"Ah." Éomer nodded. "It appears you and I share the same discomfort."

"You were visited by an unwelcomed dream as well, my lord?"

"I would more dub it a nightmare than a dream," Éomer clarified. She quirked an eyebrow at that. Dark indeed his dream must have been, for the look now gracing his strong face was not the tender or kind expression he had often bore with her. "Alas," he sighed, "that the visage of war does such to a Man."

Duvaineth smiled sadly. "I am sorry."

"Nay, do not apologize. It is no fault of yours." With the shake of his head Éomer dismissed her words. "Gladly do I abide mine uncle's command and ride to war on his behalf. The loss of many good men is as great as the vision of war and death is horrific, yet I shall not abandon my duty no matter how heavy it falls upon my heart to see such things. But I wonder, shall it ever come to an end?"

Not even Duvaineth could say. She did not answer. Instead, her eyes gazed out to Rohan and the darkened paths. A silence fell between them, but it was neither discomforting nor long-lasting, for soon the Rohír spoke up again. "The air is still. I have not seen such a night for some time."

Duvaineth's gaze was suddenly on him, her eyes bearing a look of bewilderment, something having stirred within her. "What did you say?"

Éomer said nothing. He looked at her, confusion heavily written on his features. She paid no mind to him, however, barely hearing his words. The familiar words of Gandalf he relayed to her before her departure from Imladris echoed in her ears. "When grows darker the Shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air...return to Imladris, and seek me."

It was at that moment Duvaineth realized the fulfillment of his words and, had it not been for Éomer's rather casual observation to her, she would have never seen it. The air was dark and still, and an unsettling breeze blew with it. A cold shiver ran down her spine and there was a darkness, but it was not the fall of the night. Why did she not see this before? Had she truly felt the Shadow upon her for so long that she hardly noticed its presence darkening other lands? The thought terrified her.  
Without a word, Duvaineth returned inside Meduseld. There was little time to waste. She must return to Imladris and quickly. Her wound was mostly healed and she would be able to bear the journey without much difficulty. Upon arrival to her assigned quarters, Duvaineth searched for and gathered her belongings. They were not much; only her bow, quiver, and a small number of daggers that had been retrieved when she was brought wounded to Edoras. Along with her weapons was also her satchel, but her sword, however, was gone, lost amid her battle against the Warg-riders.

"You are leaving."

Duvaineth turned around to find Éowyn standing in the doorway, who bore a look of sadness. The elleth nodded slightly. "I am."

"So suddenly," Éowyn went on, her eyebrows knitted together. Her sadness now gave way to confusion. "And at such a late hour!"

"Something has occurred and I must return home," Duvaineth explained. "Théoden King greatly deserves a proper farewell, and you no less, were there even a morsel of time to spare for it. But now I must leave with haste. I am sorry."

"Nay! You need not to apologize to me." Éowyn shook her head. "I would not keep you from your home, though it saddens me to see you leave. You have been a dear friend to me and great company."

"Do not be sad!" Duvaineth insisted. "You will always have a friend in me, wherever I may be or the roads I travel. That, my dear friend, is a promise."

Her words brought joy to Éowyn and, though she was still saddened that her only dear friend was departing from them, it gave her hope, however small it might be. Éowyn smiled widely. "It is for that reason I give you this." She held up a long, white garment. It was her tunic, Duvaineth realized, washed of the grimy marks it attained over the course of her travels, the torn and tattered sleeves sewn together again. "I was able to wash away most of the blood and I repaired what was torn. I thought you would feel more comfortable wearing it."

"Indeed I do. I favor this garment with my heart. Thank you, Éowyn." Duvaineth smiled gratefully as she gingerly accepted it, feeling the clean and crisp fabric underneath her fingers. "You did a fine work! It is as pleasing as raiment newly made."

"It was my pleasure," Éowyn replied. "It took some time, I will say, and I was unable to clean every stain, but I would not have you walk from here wearing such a beaten garment!"

"And I shall value it ever more now, for you have repaired it." Duvaineth then turned away for a brief moment to change into the garment. Once she was properly clothed, the elleth approached her friend and gently rested her hand on her shoulder. "I take my leave, but I ask that you bear no sadness for it. Carry with you each night the belief -- nay, the hope, that you will no longer feel darkness. Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. You and your people are that star, Éowyn. Lead them by example what hope looks like and that it still remains."

They embraced tightly before exchanging a tender farewell and well wishes to one another, and Éowyn bid her a safe journey. With one last smile to the woman who had become a dear friend to her in the past months, Duvaineth brushed past her and left, making her way to the stables. There, she began preparing her mare for the long journey that awaited them. They would have to ride swiftly without much pause. Duvaineth only hoped her horse would not tire too easily, for great haste was needed for the ride they would have to undertake. "Gather your strength, sweet one," she murmured as she lightly ran her hand along Gilroch's flank. "For greatly will I have need of it. We return home and little time can be thrown to waste." Giving a firm pat on her back, Duvaineth adjusted her saddle and fed her an apple, ensured she drank a decent amount of water before handling the last, small details in preparation for their departure. She stopped short, however, when she felt a presence standing in the shadows of the stable. Instead of feeling nervous or reaching for one of her daggers -- a natural instinct of hers that she most often did that hinted at her discomfort -- she smiled, instead. For she knew who it was. "You must pardon me, my lord, but the dark does not suit you well. The Sun compliments you better."

She heard a light chuckle behind her, followed by a brief shift as he moved. "A compliment I shall carry with me! But I believe leaving without a word hardly puts you in a favorable light, Mistress Duvaineth."

"Oh?" she questioned, turning and facing the amused Man in front of her. "Some would disagree with you, my lord. They would find gladness in my departure, and mayhap even more so if I did not utter a word. After all, they fear too much of becoming cursed should they express their joy in front of me."

"They are fools. Nonetheless..." His lips twitched into a smirk. "I would take great joy in seeing them squirm with their foolhardy belief of such."

Duvaineth laughed. "You would not then need my tales to entertain you!"

"No, but greatly would I still miss them and your company."

A soft smile graced her lips. "I must leave, Lord Éomer."

"I know," he said quietly, and then he sighed. "And were you still suffering from your wound I would then insist you stay. But then it would be out of mine own greed rather than your wellbeing. I will not ask why you now leave so hastily, but I know it involves your homeland, and I would not keep you from it."

"Thank you," Duvaineth said softly. "And I speak sincerely, my lord. I thank you for not only your understanding, but for all you have done for me. You extended to me grace and kindness no Man would have thought to give. My life was spared because of you. I shall never forget it."

Éomer lowered his eyes to hers and there they held each other's unshifting gaze for what felt many moments, and for a moment there was silence between them. Something fell over Duvaineth that she could not explain. His dark eyes, kind and filled with a small bit of sadness, bore into hers. Her own could not tear away from his and could only gaze back into his own eyes. It was as if a spell had fallen over them both, and it greatly confused her. "I hope to see you again one day," he said at length. "And may it be where you are well and do not have a sword embedded in you!" he added in jest.

"Oh, let us hope!" Duvaineth laughed with him. In one swift movement, she mounted Gilroch and gathered the reins in her hands. Strangely, relief flooded over her as she no longer was held under Éomer's gaze, a fluster she had felt burning her neck. It was peculiar, she thought, but she decided to push it aside for the time being.

"Here." Éomer stepped forward, a small satchel in his hands of which he extended up to her to take hold of, which she did with care. "When you returned to Meduseld so suddenly, I knew something was amiss. In the event you were to leave, I packed you rations and an extra skin of water. Your journey is long, I do not doubt. I would not wish for you to depart empty-handed."

"Thank you," was all Duvaineth could utter. "You have shown me a great kindness I could never hope to repay. Truly, I am grateful."

"There would be no need of repayment to my deeds. I would not ask it. What kindness I extended to you and will continue to extend to you, I do it by the will of my heart. All I ask is a safe return to your home."

"It shall be done," Duvaineth promised. "Farewell, Lord Éomer. May the days to come shine well upon you, your sister, and your gracious king. And may you find hope where you tread and the strength to fight against Sauron."

He grinned. "Should we meet again, I would very much enjoy exchanging tales!"

Duvaineth smiled. "I would have it no other way, my lord."

Éomer stepped back from her. He gave her a firm and short nod. "Farewell, Mistress Duvaineth."

_"Noro lim,_ Gilroch," Duvaineth urged her mare. " _Noro lim! Northam nan gelegas na Imladris!"_

Gilroch did not need any further encouragement. With eagerness she sped into a gallop and Duvaineth was soon flying from the gates of Edoras and onto the open fields of Rohan.

Her arrival to Imladris was hardly an easy achievement. The days felt long; always almost a wait that was more like a torment. Little rest could be found, less food was consumed, but greedily did she quench her thirst. Sleep was scarcer, but upon waking in the morning her eyes beheld a very familiar sight she indeed had dearly missed: the wooded path in the Trollshaws. It was not long before her eyes fell upon Imladris. Duvaineth let out a long sigh of relief. There were times where she doubted she would gaze upon its beauty again, even as she rested comfortably and safely in Rohan. They were all within her dreams. Dark and taunting dreams. Untrue visages. That was all they were and she was glad for it.

Having neither the desire nor patience to remain gazing upon Imladris instead of being in the safe walls of her home once more, Duvaineth eagerly sent Gilroch into a full gallop. With every moment that passed, the Last Homely House drew closer until finally she reached the wide courtyard. As she came to an abrupt stop, Duvaineth lifted her head and turned her gaze to the long flight of stairs before her as a lone and tall figure clothed in grey slowly descended the steps towards her. He held a pipe in one hand and a staff in the other, and underneath the brim of his tall, grey hat was a calm face. Duvaineth could not help but smile widely as she recognized the Wizard, all the while feeling relief as she had never felt before.

"Ah." He reached the last step and stood still, leaning against his staff. "You are early. I have been expecting you."

"Mithrandir," was all Duvaineth could say with a joyous laugh.

The Wizard smiled warmly at her. "My, quite the adventure you must have had, Duvaineth, for you to be so happy to see one as aged as myself!"

"That is an understatement, my friend!" Duvaineth swung one leg up over the pommel of her saddle and hopped off, giving her mare a gentle pat to her side as she stepped away. "An adventure indeed, but all the more concerning as well."

"Hmm?" he hummed thoughtfully as he tapped his finger lightly on his pipe. "Is that so?"

"Mithrandir." The tone in her voice gave him pause and when he looked in her eyes, he saw an emotion he had not seen for many years. Fear. "Sauron has grown stronger."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duvaineth learns shocking discoveries concerning the One Ring, and is all the more concerned when a wounded Hobbit comes to Rivendell.

"You tell me you saw in Rohan what I forewarned you of, and yet that is not all. An ill influence stands at the side of the king and threatens his wellbeing. Indeed, your tale weaves a concern that has troubled my mind for some time. Orcs roaming the lands is no revelation, an activity that should be expected that it is. Warg-riders, however…now, that inspires many questions."

"Questions that inspire answers hardly pleasant to the ears, I am sure."

"It brings me sadness to say it, but yes. I believe so. For a long while now the legions of Mordor have tainted the wide lands. Now Sauron is gaining his full strength."

Duvaineth shook her head. "He cannot gain his full strength without the One Ring. He can only become as strong as he can without it, and he is strong enough without the Ring in his possession. The mere thought fills me with dread."

"Then you will little like what I have to say next," Gandalf said. Sighing, he continued. "Our days grow dark, mayhap worse now than before. Deny this I know you would not, for you have felt it for some time. This concerns Lord Elrond. He stood many hours with me in deep council concerning many things. But we did not come to an agreement."

"An agreement," Duvaineth echoed quietly. "An agreement to what, if I may inquire? Your story interests me."

Gandalf hesitated, an action that made the elleth uneasy. Her eyes bore into him, dark and curious. "What is it, Mithrandir?"

"You know well of the dark power and sway Sauron possesses," the Wizard began. "Weak he may be, but that does not entirely diminish his power. Our council concerned this. Sauron and his strength." His answer, though sincere, was not entirely truthful. There was something else and Duvaineth knew it. She stopped their walk and turned to him, opening her mouth to speak. But the words did not come. She did not have the strength to ask. Yet she did not need to, for one look in his eyes told her everything, and the answer she sensed they both feared to utter.

"I believe I now know what it truly entailed. It was of the One Ring, was it not, my friend?"

He nodded slowly. "It was."

"But the One Ring has been lost for yéni.”

"Until now."

Duvaineth stared at him incredulously. She did not move, as if winter had come and froze her in place. "Surely not."

"I am afraid so," Gandalf said gravely. "The Ring has been founded for fifty years and right under my nose as well! Fortunately, it has been in the hands of one that is not so easily corrupted, though attached to it he became over the years."

It was not for some time that Duvaineth was able to find her voice. "Who?" she then inquired curiously.

Again, Gandalf hesitated. And then, an innocent smile broke free. "A Hobbit."

"A Hobbit!" Duvaineth exclaimed. "They should not know of such evil, Mithrandir!"

"I fear the Shadow will come to them in due time, should nothing be done. The Shire remains safe for the present, but I know not for how long before evil finds its way upon their doorstep. This is why Lord Elrond is concerned. The Ring is no longer hidden and it now rests in the hands of the former bearer's nephew. He seeks the safety of Rivendell but has not yet arrived. Even I am beginning to fear where his trail may be."

"That is discomforting news. And he bears this journey alone?"

"Not entirely," Gandalf answered. "With him is a companion, a stout-hearted Hobbit! However, so long as they remain out there they are not safe. You know what servants the Dark Lord has at his command. They actively seek the One Ring at his behest. They would drive a dark blade through him if it meant they would obtain it."

"A Morgul Blade." A look of uneasiness danced across her features. "Those are ill tidings."

"Indeed they are. You know of the Nine and their capability, the Witch-King of Angmar among them all. You know what will happen if they retrieve the Ring."

"I wish not to spend even so much as a moment on the thought."

"Yet aside from myself, you know well about them."

"All too well," Duvaineth said, her voice dry and filled with bitter disdain. "Yet do not be fooled that the Nine are his only weapon. They are not. You know this. He favors toying with the mind. That is his strongest weapon. He haunts me each day and torments me in my dreams where I feel I cannot escape."

"Let us hope that the mind of our dear Hobbit is stronger than we believe it to be."

"For all that is good in this world, Mithrandir, dearly do I hope so." They fell back into a walk. "He will need great strength if he now bears the Ring and Sauron's servants seek him. Even I struggle to repel against him, yet I do. It is a trying effort, one I hope the Ring-bearer will not have to endure."

They continued their walk together, though far they were from discussing pleasantries, sharing all that had transpired since their last meeting and Duvaineth telling the Wizard the small details she had left out, but neither spoke yet of the Elvish blade. She decided she would present it to him in the presence of Lord Elrond in a private council. She would need both of their wisdom. This continued on for another hour before Gandalf took note of the day and saw how much time had passed. "Alas, evening will be upon us in a few hours, and yet much needs to be done and spoken still," he said with a sigh. "Heed my words; rest! Your journey was long, I do not doubt. Rest for a while if you can. You look as if you could greatly use it."

Greatly strained her mind had been in weariness that Duvaineth could not remember when she had last truly slept. She nodded and agreed with the Wizard, and then parted from him. As soon as she laid her head upon her pillow, she quickly fell into a deep slumber, one that was surprisingly dreamless. Her slumber was long – though not the longest she ever slept, her time in Rohan having surpassed that – and when Duvaineth awoke she felt a peace over her she had not felt for a time now. Looking out the window, Duvaineth saw it was late; the Sun had long disappeared into the horizon and all glimmered softly under the white light of the Moon. For how long had she slept, Duvaineth wondered. She did not know, but she knew with all certainty it had not been five days!

Duvaineth turned and looked out the window above the nightstand. From where she lay, she could see the starry night quite well; unveiled and bright, the Moon's silver rays of light illuminating the valley below. As she removed herself from her bed and approached the window, she saw that the Falls of Imladris seemed to have a beautiful glimmer underneath the sky. Duvaineth soon found her mind drifting away in her thoughts. She thought about Éowyn and wondered how she fared as she dwelled in Théoden King's home, under the lustful eyes of Grima Wormtongue and his dark words. And Éomer – what of him? How well did he calm his temper and barely tamed tongue toward Grima? Duvaineth faulted him not. She could not. She admired the love the Rohír had for his home. He would speak and act freely if it meant the protection of those he loved. Yet she wondered, just how much benefit would it provide him?

Duvaineth remained like that at the window, deep in her thoughts. After a while, she turned and looked back at her bed. She was still tired and the night would not be leaving soon. If indeed she had been granted brief peace and undisturbed slumber wrought by dark dreams – an occurrence strange and worrisome, though not frequent as it once had been, but not uncommon in the house of Lord Elrond, then verily she would take advantage of it; she knew not how long the gift would last. And so Duvaineth returned to her bed and laid her head upon her pillow, and smiled as she gazed at the full crescent Moon, as a soothing wave fell over her heart and mind. No more were her fears, for they vanished into dust like one with the wind, and she drifted off into a deep slumber.

~~~~~~~~

Éomer had long given up on sleep. It was late, but he was not tired. His body would not let him and his mind was awake with many thoughts. When he at last had enough of the fruitless attempts to fall asleep, he submitted to defeat and in frustration, tossed away his covers and rose from his bed. There was far too much on his mind; concerns and curiosities he could not rid himself of and he decided a walk may do him some good, though he was very doubtful of its effect. He felt as if he were on the back of Firefoot, galloping with great speed against the wind, yet with no direction or purpose. That was his mind this night; fast and whirling hard like an untamed wind.

The fresh air helped, yet heavily burdened his thoughts remained. If anything, he felt all the more restless. Soon Éomer returned to Meduseld and sat in the great hall near the burning hearth, every now and then stoking the fire. He sat quietly in a deep reverie. He thought about many things that concerned him; the Mark, his uncle, dearest Éowyn, Grima Wormtongue and his poisonous tongue. Out of them all, however, he thought about Duvaineth. He wondered if she returned to her home safely yet and how she fared. To say that she was missed would undoubtedly be an understatement. Éowyn was again alone and sad as she spent her days in the Golden Hall, tending to the gloomy affairs that were bestowed upon her. His uncle had been very disappointed to hear of her hasty departure, though some questioned it, the sneering Grima among them. Éomer himself missed her counsel and wisdom. Even Théodred had wondered about Duvaineth's whereabouts.

When Éomer briefly relayed to him in fleeting detail of what had transpired that night, Théodred had nodded. "I see. I must say it is a shame," he had said. "Her company was pleasant. I enjoyed hearing of her kin. Do you think we might see her again?"

"That I cannot say for certain," was Éomer's response. "I hope one day we will meet again. One such as her with such kindness and gratitude towards our king will always be welcomed in his home."

That was nigh over a fortnight ago. Éomer reclined back in his seat as he stared thoughtfully at the flickering flames, his fingers absentmindedly running over the armrest of the chair. The sound of faint footsteps echoing in the hall reached his ears, but he hardly focused any of his attention on it. "Does sleep evade you as well?" enquired a soft voice. A smile spread over Éomer's lips and he turned to look at the fair and concerned face of his sister.

"Frequently it does, but fret not. I am well," he said, and then quirked an eyebrow at her. "What keeps you up at this hour?"

"Too much, I fear," Éowyn answered grimly.

Concern now etched its way into his own face, threatening to turn into a scowl. "Does Grima trouble you?"

"No, he does not. I am thankful he does not wander our uncle's home at night. Something else keeps me awake."

"Come, then," Éomer urged. "Sit with me and tell me what lays so heavily on you."

Éowyn nodded. She retrieved a nearby chair against the wall and brought it to the hearth, easing into it with a weary sigh, but she said nothing. She sat in silence, contemplating. Finally, she spoke. "The night of her departure, Duvaineth bade me follow certain words. It has been on my mind since."

Éomer leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his interest piqued. "What did she say to you?"

"She said…. Well, forgive me, for it has been a fortnight since she told me this and I cannot remember precisely what she said, but it is close. She said, I take my leave, but I ask that you bear no sadness for it. Carry with hope, that you will no longer feel darkness. Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. You and your people are that star, Éowyn. Show them hope still remains. I know what she meant. Duvaineth means to encourage me to give hope to the people in Edoras and all throughout the Riddermark, mayhap even through my words or actions. It troubles me. I do not think I have the strength or the very hope in my heart to do so."

Her brother smiled benevolently. "I believe Duvaineth's words to be true. Our king sees to the safety of our people. He ensures they are well and away from harm, yet little is he able to give them hope, for he bears such a small amount of it himself. Few, if none at all, do. But you are young, my dear sister, and have wisdom. Our people may yet look to you for hope. I know it stirs somewhere within you. It is hidden. You must unveil it."

"How?" Éowyn asked quietly. "How can I do so for our people when I am uncertain of mine own hope, a light I feel that has long been burnt by darkness?"

"It is a difficult task to bear, I do not doubt," Éomer said softly. "Dark are our days, yet hope is not forever gone. Find what brings you joy, even if it may be temporary. Find it and share it to your people. Search your heart and find your hope. Remember Duvaineth! Endless was her hope though she was beset by foul trials, but it remained. Why, I do not know. How, I cannot answer. But it was there. You must do the same. You looked to Duvaineth and saw she had hope, and so it filled within your soul. If our people shall look to us and see that the Lady Éowyn, niece of the king, has hope, and they too shall have it."

Éowyn quietly weighed on his words. Her eyes were as if no light shined in them, her lips formed into a straight line. She looked up at him. "Do you believe I have the strength to do so, Éomer?"

"I believe, my dear sister, that you indeed do. With all my heart I do believe."

~~~~~~~~~~

The days came and went. It felt like a blur to Duvaineth and soon a week passed since her return to Imladris. There was not yet word on the Hobbit and his companion, none that Duvaineth heard of, at least. Mithrandir's words were henceforth on her mind and frequently she sought the comforting seclusion of Elrond's library. And then, with no forewarning, a visitor came to Imladris. It was not so unusual a circumstance, but soon after many more arrived; three Hobbits, a Man, and an Elf. Duvaineth scarcely had the chance to see the group of companions but soon learned through Mithrandir that their anticipated guests had arrived, bringing with them more companions than he had predicted. Yet they bore also with them dire tidings, that the one in possession of the One Ring had been pursued by the Nine and had arrived suffering a wound from a Morgul Blade.

"Worry not," Mithrandir was quick to assure the elleth. "He has been healed of his grievances and now rests. He and the Ring are safe at the present."

For how long, Duvaineth wondered grimly.

Regardless, she took comfort in the Hobbit's safety. Yet, she wondered what else might transpire. Her curiosity only grew when more visitors arrived at Imladris, for this circumstance was far more circumspect. Dwarves, Elves, and a lone Man who did not even claim a horse and looked as if he had traveled very far. That evening Mithrandir approached her. "Long have been the days while we have dwelled on many troubling thoughts. We seek answers to trying questions and far do our minds take us as a heavy concern weighs on us. As you may already know, there is a small number that have come to Imladris seeking the very same as we do, and it is why Lord Elrond has thought it expedient and so chose to wright what benefit he can from it. There shall be a council, one where we will come together and unweigh our worries and seek a decision of what shall be done against Sauron's growing threat. Many are welcome to attend if they so desire, you among them, and I believe your presence during the council would be most valuable."

"I thank you for your consideration, my friend," Duvaineth said, "though hardly is it any desire of mine. Nor do I believe my seat would hold any value in assisting the purpose of this council."

"Oh, quite the contrary," Gandalf corrected her. "It was Lord Elrond who suggested you as a guest to the council. I but merely agreed. Your presence would be of great assistance to the assembly of peoples so that they may gather a fuller understanding."

Duvaineth hesitated. What darkness would then come upon her? She knew what fruit the council would bear. And the very presence of Sauron would be before her. What would it do? Would she be able to withstand it? Duvaineth looked at him from the corner of her eye. He hardly appeared affected by their discussion and when he looked at her, though she felt a sense of foreboding, she could not help but feel amused at the unperturbed expression on his face. "My presence would mean little. I would only listen and observe what needs to be said. I would have nothing to say."

"Save for what you have told me and what knowledge you possess. The choice is yours. Lord Elrond will not force you, but he will welcome your presence all the same."

Duvaineth remained silent. The only sound that could be heard was the echoes of their footsteps in the empty hall. The elleth dwelled heavily on the Wizard's words and her own discomfort on the matter. At length, she spoke. "Very well. If it is the will of Lord Elrond, even if but a request of his, then I will come. If I may at all assist in the war against Sauron, then gladly I will."

"Good, then." Gandalf nodded firmly. "Lord Elrond will be pleased. I know it brings you little joy to hear that which concerns the Dark Lord, and even less desirable are the thoughts I know that plagues your heart." He regarded her with tender eyes, his features glowing warmth; a grandfatherly look that soothed away the troubles of her heart. "And I hope it shall be brief at the council that you must hear these unpleasant, and perchance dark, tales and tidings. Such should not even be uttered in Imladris, for oppressive they are to those who seek peace. But great is the matter that all must hear these things. Rest well tonight, Duvaineth, for come a matter of a couple of days there will be feast in the honor of our guest's recovery. Your presence would be welcomed!"

Duvaineth could not argue with the Wizard, for when she returned to her chambers that night, she felt exceptionally tired. However, before she could think about retiring to bed, her eyes fell on the nightstand at her bedside. A lit candle sat there, the fire burning dimly. Next to it lay a folded piece of paper with her name written in a neat, bold, and very familiar handwriting. Duvaineth's eyebrows furrowed together. She recalled neither the candle nor the parchment being there before, nor did she recall retrieving the candle and lighting it while the day still burned brightly well before evening came. Duvaineth crossed the room and retrieved the parchment and, with great curiosity, unfolded it. It was a note, yet it gave no hint as to who had written it. But she needed no hint, for she knew immediately who it was.

_Duvaineth, one who I call Meluiwen,_

_I was told you have returned to Rivendell. Joy fills me that cannot be expressed to know you are well, though it grieves me to have learned of the injury you suffered. I would have come sooner, but important affairs needed my attention first and when I was at last able to visit you, you were long in slumber. May it be that we will see each other soon, if not until tomorrow evening, then. I trust you will be at the feast for a small Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins? He is indeed fine company. He would lift your spirits should they be in such need._

_I look forward to our meeting. There is much to be relayed, I am certain!_

Duvaineth smiled to herself. Much, indeed!

~~~~~~~~

"You are quiet, Mithrandir."

"Hmm? Oh, pray pardon me, Duvaineth. I did not sleep very much last night."

"That comes as little wonder. Was your nose again buried in Lord Elrond's library?"

"You could say that," Gandalf answered with a smile. "With much on my mind, but yes."

"I thought as much."

"Oh? Is that so? Pray tell, how did you come to suspect this?"

"You had a distant look in your eyes. It is one I have borne in mine own eyes many a time. I would be a blinded fool to not recognize it."

"Was it truly that evident?"

Duvaineth smiled. "Quite."

"Ah," Gandalf chuckled lightly. "You must forgive me. Any thought about the Ring has not left me. I am afraid it has left me dwelling on it for many days prior to your return to Imladris."

"Alas, that is the strength of Sauron's power. I take it your thoughts have been none too pleasant?"

"Indeed they have not been," Gandalf answered gravely. Duvaineth nodded but said nothing. The Wizard soon spoke again. "I am only mindlessly mumbling. I should not speak of such things tonight, for it is this evening that Lord Elrond bids us all to feast and enjoy ourselves with lightly burdened hearts. Yet I feel even the feast will not lie to rest the concerns that are heavy on my heart, nor would I believe he expects that of many, if any at all."

"My friend!" Duvaineth laughed. "When have you been known to have a still mind?"

The hall of Elrond's home was not empty, as expected, but Duvaineth was surprised to see the number of guests. It was filled with many; Elves for the most part, though there were a few guests of other sorts. Dwarves and Men, and even Hobbits, Duvaineth noticed. Elrond, as was his custom, sat in a great chair at the end of the long table upon the dais and next to him on the one side sat Glorfindel, and on the other side was an empty chair, soon to be filled by Mithrandir. There were still several seats available for those who had yet to arrive. "Well," the Wizard chuckled as he turned to her. "Does this not look familiar to you? I believe something of the sort occurred many years ago."

"Indeed, and I still think it was unnecessary," she said, inciting a laugh from him. "A kind and gracious host Lord Elrond was to me. All I could think was to return his benevolence, though needless I felt his kindness was."

"You healed from a wound that nearly left you paralyzed to darkness. That is no small feat, or painless."

"I was mostly asleep—"

"Where we were, yes," Gandalf said, his voice low and his eyes turned downward at her sternly. "But beyond where we could reach you, it was not quite so, now was it?"

Duvaineth pressed her lips together. "No," she sighed, "it was not. I was wrought in a world that was not mine of many terrible dreams – nightmares, I should say. Each one knew my weakness and sought to destroy me."  
"And that, my dear Elf," Gandalf smiled, "is no small feat."

"Hmm." Duvaineth heard but said nothing else. Gandalf then turned away and left her to her thoughts and took his seat at the side of Elrond. She glanced at the long table where many sat. She recognized a few faces, but there were so many she had never seen before. "There are many unfamiliar faces, indeed," Duvaineth noted out loud. "Yet still, I wonder who all has come."

"I cannot say, but I hope you will find at least one friendly face!"

Duvaineth turned around in one quick motion. She was startled, not in a way where she was briefly frightened, but surprised. Her wide smile could not be contained, for the one she gazed upon filled her with the greatest joy. "Aragorn! _Thia non lúguil mi thî ah ir din cennin medui!"_

The Man smiled fondly at her. "It has indeed been some time, mayhap too long!" Aragorn then went forward and pulled the elleth into a tight and loving embrace. "Sweet Duvaineth! How happy am I see you return, and so well!"

"I was beginning to wonder if you were here in Imladris," Duvaineth said, pulling back, "for your name was mentioned, but I had yet to see you. And here you are!"

"Do not forget! You heard from me."

"Ah! So I did. But I know very little with you. You can be here one hour and gone the next," Duvaineth said with a soft laugh.

Aragorn grinned. "And it is such movements that keep me safe from mine enemies. I am here and I will remain here for some time, as I suspect you will too. Come! Let us join Lord Elrond and his guests and sit with them so that we might enjoy this evening and fill our stomach well with food, and that you may tell me all that has happened. I heard you were in Rohan for the duration of your travels. I am very curious."

It was not long after Aragorn and Duvaineth joined the rest at the table that platters and bowls of plentiful and delicious food were set before them and Elrond greeted and welcomed all, blessing the feast with words of kindness and encouragement so that they might be filled with delight and hope. Many gladly took part in the chatter that circulated around the table as they dined. The Men roared with laughter and many tales of their home and exciting battles to follow; the Elves spoke to one another of their kin and a handful of Men, but their particular interest were the four small Hobbits that were present tonight. Even the Dwarves allowed themselves to partake in storytelling and simple talk, though to whom they spoke were of a few number, for very wary they remained among the Elves and they too return the unfriendly gesture. The Hobbits, however, were a very kind and peaceful folk. They knew no difference between the Men, Elves, and other Dwarves. Their awe and curiosity was far too great to even have the thought to divide themselves as the Dwarves did. Even so, they would not understand the need to. They were innocent, vastly shielded from the scars of war and unfriendly pasts.

Like her kin, Duvaineth's curiosity was on the Hobbits, though her interest also remained trained on the Dwarves as well, for she had never seen them before and they were most peculiar.

Aragorn noticed her interest and leaned forward, whispering to her so that only she may hear. "I do not know if Gandalf has mentioned to you of my recent travels, but with me on my return to Rivendell were four Hobbits. The first one to the left is Peregrin Took. He is...very interesting, I will say. Clumsy a bit, but he means well. To his side is Meridock Brandybuck. He is sharper than Peregrin, and is quick on his feet. To the far end on the right is Samwise Gamgee. He is a Hobbit with a stout heart and the love that he holds for his friend, most certainly his close friendship with the one at his side, is undoubtedly strong. He has strength in him. And there, at his side is Frodo Baggins. He carries the heaviest weight out of them all, as I am sure you know. Already his strength and will has been tested, but he has prevailed strongly thus far. I believe him to be a strong Hobbit of incredible resistance, though that has yet to be tested."

"Will it?" Duvaineth asked.

Aragorn shared a solemn glance with her. "Do you know of the council that is to assemble?"

"I do."

"Then I shall say this to you with all honesty and sincerity – I believe the decision of the council that determines what shall be done will bear no good just as it bears evil. What shall be decided, alas, I cannot say. I do not think even Lord Elrond himself knows. Either way, I fear for Frodo."

"Or worse. What he now bears with him is no mere trinket. It is as if Sauron is in his hand and he will use all power through the Ring to persuade him from his path."

"Indeed," Aragorn sighed.

Silence fell upon them but it did not last long, for Duvaineth let out a light chuckle. Aragorn looked at her, an eyebrow quirked. "What do you find amusing?"

"To think barely three weeks past I stood in the great halls of Théoden King in attendance to his feast."

His lips twitched, threatening to smile. "How did you find it to be?" Aragorn asked.

"It was most gracious. I should not forget his kindness unto me," she answered, "but little did it do upon my troubled soul, I am afraid. Yet I enjoyed it, nonetheless."

"I hope he knew so, for very strangely do you express yourself, my friend!" he jested, but then he grew serious and urged her eagerly. "Tell me of your time there. I wish to know."

And so Duvaineth relayed her tale to him, from the very beginning when they parted from each other to her encounter with the Marshall Éomer, nephew to Théoden King of Rohan, and her long recovery that followed. When she finished, Aragorn was astonished. "Little kindness do they speak of the Elves, if even a morsel is spared to be uttered from their lips. To be wholly welcomed in the home of Rohan's king, that is a favorable gain, one that will not be easily forgotten. That is a fair deed to accomplish, Meluiwen."

"Nay! Do not commend me. I need it not. I have done nothing to earn it. His House spared my life. All I did was give my best to my host, for he was indeed gracious and kind. He was deserving of all respect and so I gave it, no less than any of mine own kin would have done."

"That may be so," Aragorn said, "but you as well have shown a quality to the Men of Rohan they thought not the Elves have. Wary they may have remained--"

"Their reasons amusingly so."

"Perhaps," Aragorn laughed, "but they have not had dealings with the fair folk and only know of them through rumors that are spoken more rancorously than truthfully. The character that you have shown will leave an impression upon them of your kin henceforth. May they openly welcome you, or if not, may they inwardly think differently as they mayhap first thought, but that is unknown. I believe now they have at least a mere glimpse of a true Elf, who hardly mirrors what the tales say."

"It is a pity, though, that I did not come across one in the forest before I came to Enedwaith," Duvaineth said, as she leaned back in her seat and took a sip from her goblet of wine.

Aragorn smiled. "Is that so? Pray tell, why is that?"

"Admittedly...." Duvaineth trailed off as the thought entered her mind. She looked at him and grinned. "As wary and fearful as they are for the rumors to be true of Elves possessing the power to place whomever they desire under a dark spell, I would have enjoyed far too much a game of frightening them as they camped for the night."

It was not long after a silence fell between them and Duvaineth had shifted her attention to the chatter around her, listening to the tales and memories of old shared by those that had them. Many who sat among them had once or numerously before heard most tales, Duvaineth herself included, but there were a few she had yet to hear and she listened attentively. From the corner of her eye she saw two of the Hobbits present were listening eagerly, leaning forward in their seats and their eyes wide and full of awe. But as the tales came to an end, the elleth took notice that one of them – Frodo Baggins, she believed it was as she recalled Aragorn's quiet introduction – now had his eyes upon her and was looking at her with genuine curiosity and wonder. It was not until she turned her head and looked at him that the Hobbit realized he had been caught, and flushed.

A smile threatened her lips. "Who do they call you, small one?" she asked.

He gazed at her again and was silent, as if his tongue had been tied. "Frodo Baggins," he said at length, the color of his cheeks having now returned to a normal color. "Forgive my staring. I don't believe I have yet seen you before."

"No, you would not have, for I had returned before your arrival. It is a pleasure all the same to make your acquaintance, Frodo Baggins. I hear you bore an ill and heavy wound upon your arrival. How do you fare?"

"Better, I will say, though I still remain a bit sore," Frodo answered. "I feel very much at peace in Master Elrond's home than I have been for a very long time, it feels."

"Good. That is well to hear."

Brief was their exchange, though it left Frodo wondering. He hummed quietly as he munched on a fruit, his eyes cast down on his plate. He felt the elleth's eyes on him as if they were piercing through to his very soul, but he could not find the strength to raise his own to her. The feeling soon passed, but his eyes remained on the table in front of him. Duvaineth left him to his thoughts and soon turned to her own, every now and then picking up a piece of a story that was being told. Laughter throughout the hall, loud and joyful, and the chatter just as much so, if not mayhap louder, showing no sign of coming to an end. The night was still young. Duvaineth wondered what it might hold for them all, and as she looked around her, she felt very certain it would be far from dull.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for the fate of the One Ring to be decided - and with that, their own fate.

At length, when all had eaten and drank and had their filling, the feast came to an end. Elrond rose and went down the hall and the company followed in due order. The doors were thrown open and they went across a wide passage and through other doors, entering into a further hall. In it were no tables, but a bright fire was burning in a great hearth between the carven pillars upon either side. Behind her, Duvaineth heard the voices of Gandalf and Frodo. "This is the Hall of Fire," the Wizard said. "Here you will hear many songs and tales -- if you can keep awake. It usually stands empty and quiet, save on high days, and people come here who wish for peace and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year around, but there is little other light."

"It feels rather peaceful," Frodo remarked, "as if a great wave of warmth flows over even the most chilling coldness."

"Indeed!" Duvaineth said without turning to look at him. "Here you will find a comforting silence to indulge in as you weigh on your heavy mind, if it is what you seek. If you cannot find peace in the home of Lord Elrond, it is then you have me at a great loss, for I know of no other place to offer such warmth and calmness."

"I do not think there is," Frodo said honestly, "aside from the fine comforts of my home in the Shire, of course."

"But of course, Master Baggins." The elleth nodded in agreement. "It is your home, no less than Imladris is mine. And what dwelling would bestow unto you greater comfort than such a place?"

As they filed in the hall, Duvaineth saw Elrond already near the seat that was prepared for him. Elven minstrels, their instruments already eagerly held in hand, began to make the sweet music she had long missed during her absence. However, Elrond was no longer where she had last seen him and now stood at the end of the fire by a small, dark figure. He was seated on a stool with his back propped against a pillar and looked to be asleep, his cloak drawn over his face. "Awake, little master," he said, with a smile. Then, turning to Frodo, he beckoned to him. "Now at last comes the hour you have yearned for, Frodo. Here is a friend you have long missed."

The dark figure shifted with a disgruntled scoff, sitting up straight. He removed his cloak. Suddenly, Frodo cried out with joy and sprang forward. "Bilbo!"

"Hullo, Frodo, my lad! So you have arrived at last. I hoped you would manage it. Well, well! So all this feasting is in your honor, I hear. I hope you enjoyed yourself?"

"Why weren't you there? And why haven't I been allowed to see you before?"

"Because you were asleep. I have seen a good deal of you. I have sat by your side with Sam each day. But as for the feast, I don't go in for such things much now. And I had something else to do."  
"What were you doing?"

"Why, sitting and thinking. I do a lot of that nowadays, and this is the best place to do it in, as a rule. Wake up, indeed!" Bilbo said, cocking an eye at Elrond. "Wake up! I was not asleep, Master Elrond. If you want to know, you have all come out from your feast too soon and have disturbed me in the middle of making up a song. I was stuck over a line or two, and was thinking about them; but now I don't suppose I shall ever get them right. There will be such a deal of singing that the ideas will be driven clean out of my head. I shall have to get my friend the Dúnadan to help me. Where is he?"

"He shall be found," Duvaineth intoned with a smile. "He ought not to be far. If I know him better than myself, I would profess him to be lurking somewhere in the shadows."

"Ah." Bilbo nodded. "Good then, good then. He is around. That is well."

"Indeed he is! There is no need to search for him, for he is here." Aragorn suddenly appeared, smiling down at the Hobbit. "A song, I hear? I am curious as to what ditty Bilbo Baggins has conceived next!"

"Ah!" Bilbo cried. "There you are at last, Dúnadan!"

Bilbo continued speaking, but Duvaineth did not hear him. She turned away as she began to hear the melody of the Elven minstrels more clearly, for their stringed instruments were strummed and pipes blown, and in their descants were such harmony and yearning that strands of the Song seemed to manifest in their uplifted voices that carried fair and high to the far reaches of the hall. It was nigh a balm upon Duvaineth's ears, that palliative luxury given only in the grace of Imladris. And many stood by and listened, marveling at the words woven from their tongues. Gandalf joined her and stood with her silently for a while. "How find you this evening?" he asked her.

"Peaceful," she replied, and she said nothing else. No other answer was needed.

"Relish in it, then. I fear a time comes when we will feel very little of it, even here in Imladris."

"You stand not alone in such a foreboding, for I too feel it. But I wish not for it. Tell me I am wrong, Mithrandir."

"If I did…" The Wizard paused to regard her with a solemn gaze. "Then I would be speaking a falsehood, and I will not have it said Gandalf the Grey speaks lies."

She smiled, though it was sour. "I thought as much."

Duvaineth returned her eyes to the minstrels. To her left she caught a glimpse of Frodo and his companion sitting together, speaking to each other with soft voices as they heard the singing of the Elves. Lady Arwen sat not far away, though distant she seemed. When she caught Duvaineth's gaze, she smiled warmly at her and gracefully nodded her head in greeting, which the elleth returned deferentially and placed a hand over her heart. Several moments passed and the air in the company of the Wizard was silent. He looked rather thoughtful the entire time until he spoke, surprising the elleth at his side with the quietness of his tone. "Pray tell me, Duvaineth…before your encounter with the Warg-riders along the borders of Rohan, did you perchance pass Isengard?"

Duvaineth furrowed her eyebrows as she thought back. Her confusion did not go unnoticed by Gandalf, but he ignored it. "No, I did not. I weighed on the thought to for a moment, but I decided to move from the west, and go east." She looked at him. "Why?"

"Oh, there is no reason," Gandalf was quick to answer. "Simple curiosity, you could say."

She thought it strange, but did not think much on it. The night continued on, growing late by the passing hour, and Duvaineth's lively mood soon waned into weariness. A small number had already left; Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, nor could she see Frodo or Bilbo, and she did not recall seeing Aragorn take his leave, but he also was not in sight. Deciding to take her own leave, she turned and walked towards the doors and as she reached them, a voice behind her drew her up short. "Leaving for the evening, are you?"

She turned and smiled at Elrond. "I am afraid so. You know well I would gladly stay and hear the songs of my kin, whether of joy or otherwise, but I now grow weary."

"Indeed, and I am glad you stayed as long as you have," Elrond said. "You have been missed and I have not yet received the chance to welcome you back. But long was your journey, I doubt not. Gandalf tells me you will attend the council?"

She nodded. "Yes. Surprised I was to hear you have openly offered me a seat, though I am grateful, nonetheless. However, and this I say to you with all the respect in my heart, I believe fully my presence is needless and wish you had not named me as a member of the council."

"Needless I would say not!" Elrond protested. "The council to come greatly concerns the matter of Sauron and his power. It concerns you as much as it does all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. You endured much in your torment, yet you stand here before me free from the clutches of his dark will. I say you have rightfully earned a chair on the council."

Duvaineth lowered her head and tightly clutched her chest. "Thank you, my lord," she breathed, overwhelmed by his words. "Although I feel I do not deserve it, I will accept it, however reluctantly, and even if I must hear words that my heart desires not to hear. If I may help in this war against Sauron, then gladly will I do so."

"And with that, I bid you sleep!" Elrond said. "Go now and rest, Duvaineth, for you will have much need of it come tomorrow."

With that, Duvaineth left the great hall and sought her sleeping chambers, for verily she was worn and feared falling asleep while standing. As she walked through different archways and reached the long corridor leading to her chamber, Duvaineth smiled to herself as she still could hear the beautiful songs sung by the minstrels.

Oh, blessed Imladris! Duvaineth thought to herself benevolently, how dearly I have missed you so!

When Duvaineth rose the next morning, a feeling of dread had long swept over her. The upcoming council did not fill her with joy, nor did she take comfort in it. It would be a long day, she gathered; a day filled with ill tidings and a difficult decision to reach an answer to an unfavorable question. Alas, she supposed it was best to now deal with the matter. By each day the world grew all the more perlious to tread. Alas! What of the council? Duvaineth wondered. Would they come to a decision when Lord Elrond and Gandalf had failed to come upon an agreement, and if the council failed as well, would they keep the One Ring in hiding? What would become of it? Would it be kept underneath the Dwarvish craft, or perhaps sealed behind doors by Elvish words? Or would it remain in Imladris if no decision can be reached?

Nay. It would not. The Lord of Imladris was wiser than to allow such a decision. He knew well of the dangers of keeping Sauron's trinket in the land. The knowledge of the Ring would soon come to Sauron, if he did not know already. He would stop at nothing to retrieve it. No realm – not even Imladris – would be able to withstand Sauron, no matter how strong or great in number they may be.

She could only wonder what they might discover today.

When she arrived to the place of meeting, the courtyard of the Last Homely House, Duvaineth saw already that a few had arrived. Among them were Aragorn and Lord Elrond. Gandalf was not yet there. Aragorn stood with the Elf-lord not far from where the members of council sat, deep in discussion, when he suddenly turned and looked at her. He was again dressed in his green and brown leathers. "Ah!" he cried. "You are here. I was wondering about you."

"It is yet early," she replied.

"It is," Aragorn concurred, "but Lord Elrond wished to speak with you prior to the council, if he could."

"Certainly." Duvaineth raised her gaze to Elrond.

The Elf-lord nodded and stepped forward. He cleared his throat. "I trust you slept well. Come. There are some faces you must familiarize yourself with that are important to know for when they speak and you hear their words." He then beckoned her to him and pointed out to her many faces, all of which she had not yet seen before, or if she did last night then her memory of them was very vague, and she wondered of their affairs. There was a younger Dwarf among his kin, Gimli. There was also an Elf clad in green and brown, and seated a little apart was a tall Man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance. Beside Glorfindel there were several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom Erestor was the chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright.

Círdan. The name was well known to Duvaineth. "Yes, I know of Lord Círdan," she said. "He is...very wise, indeed. My encounter with him was brief and, though bitter sadness it brings me to recall it, he shared with me quite sagacious words when I was in great need of it."

"Right you were to have listened to his counsel," Elrond said, "for it bears guidance and few receive it."

"Even so, I wish he had given me a different answer."

Elrond smiled sadly. "That is often a desire."

"Too often, I should say. But let us pay no mind to that drear subject. Is there more I need to know, or will I hear of it amid the council?"

"I believe that is to come – today – in due time." Gandalf appeared then, staff in hand. "My, are you not a sight!"

"Do not bother!" Duvaineth laughed. "I am hardly one for compliments. I will say, however, I better prefer trousers and boots than a dress."

It was a beautiful dress, she would not deny that, though simpler were the women's attire of the Rohirrim. The undergown she wore was of figured silk dyed in a blue reminiscent of an unclouded sky, with sleeves loose about her wrists and the neckline embroidered with gold ivy leaves. Over this she wore a sideless surcoat of a darker blue, the hem bordered with a wide fold of gold trimming and hanging off the shoulder to reveal the decorated neckline of the undergown. And the bodice of the overgarment was of sheared sable, over which a heavily embroidered belt of white and silver girded her waist and stretched down the length of the frock. Strangely, however, Duvaineth did not quite feel like herself garbed so elegantly. She felt as if she were an Elf-maiden of Imladris, one of Lord Elrond's kin. She could say quite so that she was not.

It was not long after that all came and were seated. Not all that was spoken and debated in the council need now be told. Much was said of events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains. Of these things most have already heard many rumors. But it was new to Duvaineth and she knew very little of the passing troubles brought upon the different regions of Middle-earth. The tale of Glóin was especially new to her, for little was her knowledge and involvements with Dwarves, and when he spoke Duvaineth listened attentively. His tale was of great length; he spoke of Moria and the Dwarf Balin's brave return with an expedition nigh thirty years ago, and naught a word having since been received. He also spoke of dark horseman coming to the gates of King Dáin in the Lonely Mountain at the behest of "his Lord Sauron", as he said, seeking news or perchance the whereabouts of a Hobbit, and in return a reward would be bestowed upon them. Twice he had come before his gates seeking answers and receiving none, and had forewarned he would come again and lastly for a third time, before the year ends.

"You have done well to come," Elrond said. "You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring? That is the doom that we must deem. That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

The tale of the One Ring was not foreign to Duvaineth. She knew it rather well from the beginning with the forging of the Rings of Power and to the deception unto the Elves by Sauron in a fair guise, and what befell the lesser rings. There were some parts of the tale she had not yet heard and hardly blinked as she listened, yet she was not uneasy. Instead, she was intrigued by what was told. It was a long tale, of deeds both great and terrible, and although briefly Elrond spoke, the Sun rode up the sky, and the morning was passing ere he ceased.

Then a Man by the name of Boromir, one from Minas Tirith of Gondor, shifted anxiously in his seat and arose. He spoke of the realm that which he came from, and the tidings he ere endured against the servants of the Enemy before his departure, and the hard pressed beset against the Enemy. This saddened Duvaineth when she furthermore heard many were driven from Ithilien, a fair domain east of the River, though remained a foothold and strength of arms; yet this year in the days of June, sudden war came upon them out of Mordor, and they were swept away. She wondered how many more homes were laid to waste by the dark will of Sauron. How many more were driven from their households and slaughtered in wake? How many families were separated and broken?

"In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues to Elrond," the Man said. "A hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone. But I do not seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said. I come to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For on the eve of the sudden assault a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came oft to him again, and once to me. In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

"Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
"There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."

"And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," Aragorn spoke suddenly, standing up. He laid his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces. "Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

Boromir looked at him in wonder. "And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?"

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," Elrond said, "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

There was a movement, and suddenly Frodo spoke. "Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!"

"It does not belong to either of us," Aragorn said, "but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while."

"The time has come. Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle. Bring out the Ring, Frodo," Gandalf said solemnly.

A terrible feeling fell over Duvaineth upon his words. Before she could realize the meaning of the Wizard's words, Frodo drew his hand into the pocket of his vest and brought out the one thing she had been dreading to look upon – the One Ring, and her wits left her. Fear swept over Duvaineth, as if a shadow hovered above them all; but it was a cloudless morning. Yet what she felt did not fade, and the shadow felt greater; darker. It was different. She felt as if she was ensnared under the moonless twilight sky. There was no light and the path before her was so dark that she could not see, and all hope left her. Her heart raced and her head spun, and she felt the slow burning of pain creeping up to her. Yet in darkness she stood not – she was underneath the Sun and was not alone, for next to her stood Elrond and around her many others, but the shadow upon her mind sought to convince her otherwise. It was as if a different side of her took hold. All she could feel was a haunting, darkening, painful shadow.

So much pain.

A voice whispered in her ear, promising her no escape. He spoke of her torments and scars, and the cold chains that once held her still as she was whipped without mercy. And suddenly – a searing pain burned her right breast. Duvaineth winced and clutched it. She gritted her teeth, trying to make little noise or movement to be seen or heard, but Elrond noticed. He looked at her with grave concern and sadness. An Elf next to her, Glorfindel, laid his hand on her and she felt warmth as the numbing coldness left her, and a sense of comfort fell over her and the shadow passed. But the pain remained. "Be at ease. You are safe here. No more can the Shadow harm you," Glorfindel said to her, his voice soft.

"I can feel him," she whispered, her breathing shallow. "I can feel everything."

"What is it you feel?" Glorfindel probed gently.

"My torments." She closed her eyes as if it hurt her to speak the words, taking a great effort for her to muster her voice. "I feel as if I am there in Barad-dûr again."

"You are no more in that dark place. That time has long passed. You will not come back to it," Glorfindel assured her. "Trust in my words. Breathe, I say, Duvaineth. You are no longer in the darkness."

For Duvaineth, it would have been easier for her to doubt his words. Her thoughts compelled her to do so. Nay! Lord Glorfindel would not lead anyone astray. He knew well and of many things that which concerned the Shadow. Duvaineth had no reason to doubt him. And just as the ill thought came, it then left – and her darkness was no more. Relief flooded over her like the rushes of a waterfall. But her peace was only brief, for then suddenly a shadow seemed to pass over the high Sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. Gandalf stood, his voice unlike Duvaineth have ever heard it. It was menacing, powerful, harsh as stone, and she felt herself tremble. He spoke dark words – words she had not heard for three decades and had hoped she would never hear again. Her eyes fell to a tight close again, for now a different and more powerful, harsh feeling fell over her. Duvaineth clutched Glorfindel's arm and nearly toppled in her seat, who now had his arms around her. And then – Gandalf ceased, and the Sun appeared again, and she, among the entire council, felt no greater relief. But she was now beginning to feel very weary.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," Elrond said disapprovingly.

"And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again," Gandalf answered. "Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West." As if sensing the strain that was upon Duvaineth, Gandalf turned to her. His face, ere that had been hardened and his eyes unfamiliar, was now soft and his eyes somber, but his face was grave. He did not appear to be alarm by the state she was now recovering from. "Forgive me, my dear Elf. That brought me no lesser loathing than it did for you to hear it."

"Indeed, though I believe it is easier for one to utter it than it is to hear it," Duvaineth said. "Never again wished I to hear the Black Speech thirty-nine years ago, and that desire still remains!"

Gandalf smiled knowingly a little. He turned away from her and to another, and addressed to them an answer that they sought. Duvaineth let out a heavy sigh, looking down at her trembling hands. She clenched them tightly. It would be a long day, indeed, she deemed, and it was not yet noon.


End file.
